


Ich Will Eure Haende Sehen

by Arrestzelle



Series: Ich Will AU [1]
Category: Rammstein
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Ich Will, Angst, Blood and Injury, Body Worship, Developing Relationship, Discipline, Drug Use, Drunk Sex, Drunken Confessions, Eventual Romance, Eye Trauma, Facials, First Time, Fist Fights, Flashbacks, Fluff, Gen, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Murder, Mutilation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Overstimulation, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Restraints, Rough Sex, Surgery, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-01-22 09:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 136,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12478600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrestzelle/pseuds/Arrestzelle
Summary: A six-man group of criminals, lead by Till, operate in early 2000's Berlin.A series of occurrences, both good and bad.





	1. Ich Will Eure Haende Sehen

**Author's Note:**

> Title translation: "I want to see your hands"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As a new member of the six-man group of criminals, Richard has yet to learn his place in their ranks. He tends to let his rage overrule his senses when it comes to certain things. For example: poker games. It quickly gets out of hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the backstory to Richard's "deformity" in [the music video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EOnSh3QlpbQ). They're (obviously) based on [their characters](https://78.media.tumblr.com/a8365ec7b8950178856def9747af6e87/tumblr_oybt7iMwuj1rvajymo1_1280.jpg). How I portrayed them is how I perceived their characters from the music video, which is open to interpretation, of course.
> 
> The perfect art is by the wonderful Layne!! ♡

                                          

                                                                                                       ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ 

 Smoke curls thickly in the congested air of the office. The vibrating pulse of bass reaches them from the adjoined strip club. The TV plays lonesomely in the corner, ignored, while heated argument flies back and forth from the mouths of Richard and Paul. Seated on the leather sectional with his arm draped across the back, Till watches the display with a decaying cigarette kept between his fore and middle fingers, oozing the threads of smoke. Loyally, Christoph sat with him, on the other end of the sectional. Like their leader, he watches the other four engage in their game of poker, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees, hands loosely linked. The typical stony expression sits on his boyish face.

As their dealer and as a passive player, respectively, Flake and Ollie simply wait for their dispute to naturally resolve itself like it tends to. Though it seems that the resolution isn't approaching anytime soon. Richard is standing now, looming over the table with a dangerous scowl directed towards the other scarred man, his fist carelessly crushing his hand of cards. Paul, meanwhile, remains seated with a defensive, hard expression on his deformed face.

“Sit back down, R,” Paul says with an unusually level tone, “I wasn't looking at your cards.”

“Like hell you weren't!” Richard growls, jabbing a finger at the other man, “I know your fuckin' tricks! Last time we played, you got up to 'stretch', but we all knew you were just reading C's cards! This time, it was getting a fucking drink! I'm not a goddamn idiot!”

That has Paul standing, his face darkening—brewing that intense expression that makes cops piss themselves. It doesn't effect Richard. Paul speaks lowly, words curling with threat, “You calling me a cheat, R? You think I wouldn't play fairly with my brothers?”

“Both of you sit down,” Flake speaks up calmly, once again readjusting the deck of cards atop the table with thin fingers, his eyes downcast, “As the dealer, I'll be the one calling out any unfair play. As far as I could tell, R, his eyes were everywhere but on your cards.”

“Bullshit!” Richard snarls with a bare of his teeth, his dangerous scowl remaining trained on Paul, “This son of a bitch was lingering behind me, and had the fuckin' nerve to look all smug once he sat back down!”

“Y'know, you're just spinning these delusions,” Paul begins to say as he calmly sat back down, adjusting his open suit coat with his gray eyes trained on the other fuming man, “Because you're shit at poker and you can't handle losing.”

“P,” Flake says firmly, a warning, though he's far too late to act as the mediator. Till and Christoph watch silently from the leather sectional as Richard flings himself across the table, sending it tumbling to the floor in a whirlwind of cards and poker chips. This had been expected. He is the short-tempered, aggressive pup of the group. With an explosive crash of noise, he knocks Paul along with his chair to the floor of the strip club's back office.

The crack of fist meeting cheek joins Flake's irritated shouting and Ollie's quiet departure to join the other two at the couch. Stunned, Paul only manages to shove his hands up against Richard's throat and chest. As infuriated as he is, Richard easily overcomes his weak attempt of defense by violently twisting his torso again and again, throwing his arm down repeatedly to smash his fist into Paul's scarred face.

Regaining himself from his shock, Paul attempts to desperately wiggle out from underneath him, fiercely flailing his legs and digging his nails into Richard's throat. Straddling the other bucking man, Richard manages to maneuver himself so he pins Paul down completely—which is easy to do, considering Paul is the smallest of the six.

By now, Flake has stepped up to hook his arms underneath Richard's, ready to drag him off. Richard throws his elbow back against his gut, which has Flake buckling with a pained grunt. Backing off, he decides he would rather not threaten his health over Paul's. Once control is regained, Richard immediately strikes Paul against the cheek, the nose, the mouth with a white-knuckled fist, until blood spills from his mouth, sprays from his nose. Hot rage burns in his vision, his face twisted into a fiery scowl. At this point, Paul has gone limp underneath him, his hands weakly pressed to Richard's chest.

Glancing towards Till, Christoph arches a brow. With tightly pressed lips, Till flicks his cold eyes over to Christoph. He nods, and speaks firmly, lowly.

“Tighten the leash.”

Rising from the couch, Christoph pulls at the cuffs of his leather gloves as he steps up to the two men scuffling on the floor, his sleek dress shoes tapping noisily on the hardwood. Without reluctance and hardly a warning, Christoph delivers a swift, brutal kick to Richard's stomach. It sends the man collapsing onto his back, off of Paul. Richard groans in pain, clutching his stomach. He rolls his eyes up to Christoph—Christoph's frightening expression of focus and determination stares down at him. His lips are curled down into a displeased frown, his eyes—both cloudy and blue—alight with rage.

Richard doesn't have the reaction time to flinch before Christoph lifts a foot to viciously stomp it down into his gut. Richard bucks and cries out in pain, a deep growl that joins the unfitting cheery background noise of the TV. Kneeling at Paul's shaking body, Flake watches with a grim expression as Christoph kicks him in the side three times with hauntingly graceful swings of his leg, completely silent and controlled as he beats their brother. Richard jerks violently with each one, though he now controls his exclamations of pain. Till watches silently, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. Beside him, Ollie quietly rises and approaches the cabinet which held the first-aid kit.

As Christoph bends over at the waist, grabbing two fistfuls of Richard's bloodied suit coat, Ollie approaches Flake and Paul. Flake is now gently clutching both sides of Paul's head, trying to steady his disoriented nodding to check his eyes for any signs of a concussion. Paul moans and whimpers, his eyes rolling and lips in a weak grimace—blood is in the crevices of his teeth. Ollie speaks up in a low murmur, saying past the boisterous crash of Christoph thrusting Richard's beaten body into the collapsed poker table, “Let's move him to the couch.”

Nodding, Flake immediately moves aside for Ollie to pick up the other man—Flake would be unable to. He lifts his gaze to watch Christoph frighteningly approach the fallen Richard, who is slowly, shakily rising up onto his elbows.

“Bring him here,” Till speaks, voice raised, reaching out to crush his cigarette in an ashtray. Christoph looks towards Till, nods respectfully, and then drops his chilling gaze towards the other man. Richard looks up at him with challenge in his fiery eyes, his lip curled. Christoph lurches down to grab fistfuls of his coat, yanking him up onto his unsteady feet.

                                                         

He all but drags him to the couch, across bent cards and scattered poker chips. He roughly throws him onto the hard floor at Till's feet. Richard falls pathetically, failing to even catch himself on his hands.

Till allows him time to recover. Richard slowly rises up onto his hands, lifting his head and training his eyes on their leader. Till brings his broad hands in to silently unbutton his suit coat and sweep it open. He then leans forward menacingly. He sets his forearm against his knee, his other hand extending to grip Richard's chin, fingers clutching at his stubbly jawline. Richard doesn't attempt to jerk away—he knows better than to fight this man.

Till's green eyes are vibrant, albeit quite haunting to look into. Till studies his face. Richard's lip is swelling, his cheek red from being kicked, his brow bleeding. Till releases his chin, and instead he grips his earlobe with his thumb and curled forefinger. He tugs firmly, which has Richard wincing, his head jerking from the force of it. Till clicks his tongue and speaks lowly, eyes boring into Richard's, “We can't have a rabid dog on this team. You may be our brother, but a brother that has yet to grow. You have been dropped onto my lap by Tägtgren, and he knows that being on my lap is accompanied by a spanking, when necessary. Let us hope this spanking changes that bite into a kneel.”

“Sir, I-I was way out of line,” Richard whispers harshly, his eyes widening with seldom seen fear, “My anger just tends to outrun my sense. It won't happen again. I just—I just get incredibly competitive, sir.”

“Reasons, excuses—both are reduced to nothing when a man has made up his mind,” Till responds, mockingly reciprocating Richard's hushed tone with his eyes trained intently on his younger brother's. Christoph stands nearby, waiting patiently for a cue with one hand gripping the wrist of the other behind his back.

Meanwhile, Flake tends to the whimpering Paul. He checks his eyes, his skull, and finds no severe damage. He waves Ollie off, finding “assistance” a nuisance, and then grabs a sanitizing wipe from the kit to begin cleaning the blood from Paul's skin. Thoroughly checking for a concussion will have to come later, when Paul is more responsive than he is now. While Richard's fate unfolds, Ollie rises and removes himself from the scene to instead turn off the TV and grab some water for Paul.

Panning his gaze up from the kneeling Richard to Christoph's cold gaze, Till's stony expression hardens. An intense, fierce glower that has cold sweat bursting out from Richard's skin. Till releases Richard's earlobe, to instead clutch a harsh fistful of his jet black hair. Face dark and commanding, lip curling and green eyes piercing, Till speaks lowly, calmly.

“Show me the inside of R's left hand, won't you, C?”

Christoph nods, while Richard sucks in a sharp breath. His pride silences the pleading that sits on his tongue. He looks at Till with wide, horrified eyes as Christoph hooks his arms underneath Richard's and hoists him back up.

“O, get _the fucking table!”_ Christoph bellows, a startling, terrifying growl of his seldom heard voice. Ollie immediately stops pouring Paul's water from the nearby water fountain and turns to the collapsed table. He grabs it, rights it, and drags it to the center again. He does the same for a single chair and positions it for Richard.

Richard jerks desperately against his hold, though he doesn't put his strength into it—or what remains of it. Struggle is pointless, and would only show his lack of respect. With this realization, he reluctantly, yet willingly, walks with Christoph to the table. Till watches silently from the couch, legs crossed and hands linked in his lap. Flake finishes cleaning up Paul and sets aside the first-aid kit on the coffee table. He turns to watch the gruesome scene unfold, while Paul lays unresponsive next to him.

Christoph shoves Richard down into the chair, earning an angered eye from the beaten man, and then withdraws his butterfly knife. He flips it open with a cold expression on his boyish face, revealing the blade that he spends much of his time sharpening and polishing. Richard's heart is pounding, his skin soaked with a chilled sweat, his teeth locked. Christoph slowly turns the knife in his hand, admiring the gleam of the overhead light on its edge. He smiles, ever so faintly, at this prized possession of his. Many men have faced torture under this titanium. Flicking his cloudy and blue-eyed gaze to Richard, Christoph holds out his hand, waiting.

Jaw clenched, Richard hesitates only a moment, eying the other man, before warily lifting his left hand. Christoph reaches out to clutch a painful, white-knuckled grasp of his wrist. He shoves his hand down onto the tabletop, jerking the entire thing from the force of it. Richard winces and clenches his eyes shut. When he doesn't reopen them, Christoph leans in close.

“Witness your punishment,” Christoph hisses into his ear, sending a jolt of fear down his spine. Richard snaps open his eyes and stares wide-eyed at the back of his hand. He realizes his hand is shaking. It _angers_ him, this portrayal of his fear. Christoph gradually, carefully, lowers the glinting, smirking blade to his hand. Richard begins to pant heavily, his throat convulsing and eyes blinking wildly.

The piercing edge of the butterfly knife is merely a sting at first. The fear tortures Richard more.

But Christoph knows how to amplify that pain. He's skilled at digging a little deeper, and then deeper still.

 

Five minutes later, Richard lays on the floor on his side, motionless and limp. Ollie's ears are ringing from the screaming, which also had drawn Paul out of his brief unconsciousness—he now sits up, pale-faced and wide-eyed. Flake is grabbing the first-aid kit again, while Christoph calmly wipes his blade off on Richard's white button-up. Till puts out his last cigarette in the cluttered ashtray and rises from the couch. He re-buttons his suit coat calmly, and then grabs his cane. With clicks of the cane and his brace, Till approaches the others. He stands over the unconscious Richard and Flake, who is now examining his mangled hand. Christoph stands beside Till and snaps his blade shut.

Till speaks lowly, readjusting his grip on his cane.

“Reconcile with the kid. I don't care how. There will be no hatred among us.”

Christoph silently nods. Till then takes his leave, sickened by the foolish display Richard had provided him with. Christoph follows, his footsteps loud and commanding on the hardwood floor as he shadows their leader. Ollie rises from the couch silently, at ease now that the two most malicious and sadistic members of their group have departed. He cautiously approaches Flake and their fallen brother, who remains motionless, silent. Blood had pooled on the floor, where his hand had laid.

“His hand is ruined,” Flake states as he peers into the gaping wound in the back of his hand, voice steady with no tone of remorse, “C did not care to spare the function of it.”

Ollie says nothing, his eyes hard and jaw tensed. A strained, angered growl from the couch earn glances from both men. Paul is seated at the couch, elbows set on his knees with his hands in his hair, fingers clutching fistfuls. His swelling face is twisted in a grimace, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Fuck!” he shouts, tugging at his hair with each curse, “Fuck! _God damn_ it! That _fucking_ idiot!”

Lurching from the couch, Paul grabs the coffee table, lifts it from the floor, and throws it against the wall with an enraged scream. The legs of the coffee table snap off, the remainder of it crashing onto the floor. He then storms out of the office, almost kicking the door off of its hinges as he goes.

Ollie and Flake exchange bewildered glances.

Richard moans weakly from the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> babypaulchen.tumblr.com


	2. Ich Will Das Ihr Mich Versteht

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the incident that costs Richard his hand, he readjusts to the change and finds his spot in the group: away from Christoph, among Flake and Ollie, with Paul and Till.
> 
> Paul, meanwhile, finds himself truly trusting one of the group members for the first time--predictably, Richard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "I want you to understand me"

“You're a fucking idiot.”

“Yeah.”

“What the hell were you thinking, pulling that shit in front of T?”

“I wasn't.”

“No, you weren't!”

Richard lifts his gaze from his bandaged hand to Paul, his expression clear of any emotion. Paul, meanwhile, is blatantly upset with distress written across his scarred face; his brow furrowed, lips in a deep frown that only accentuates the lines around his mouth, his eyes wrought with concern and equal anger. His hands are in fists, though he unfurls one to rake his fingers through his short hair, heaving a heavy sigh.

“How are you not more upset about this?” he demands, gesturing at the other man with a jerk of a hand. Richard shrugs and leans back into the leather couch, drawing his elbows back over it. He lifts his wrapped up hand and turns it, eying it. Attempting to curl his fingers results in only a twitch. He shrugs again.

“It was going to happen, Paul,” he speaks lowly, training his hard gaze on the other man's troubled face, “Whether it was now or later. Whether it was to my hand, or to my face like you, or to my eyes, or whatever. T was just waiting for that opportunity to put me in my place. F and O have avoided it because they're smart, and not hot-headed assholes like we are.”

A bitter, wry twitch of a smile pulls at Paul's lips. He rests back against the armchair he sits in, hands resting limply in his lap. He speaks in a murmur, an ironic tone in his voice.

“Of all the things, it was over a game of poker. You always get so twisted up about losing, or being in the wrong.”

Paul always did manage to dig up a smile out of himself, no matter how dreary the conversation or situation is. Richard averts his gaze from Paul's softened gray eyes to stare at the shine on his sleek dress shoes.

“Pride seems to be my sin,” Richard remarks, brushing his hand over his thigh, across the black fabric of his slacks. Considering they're in his apartment right now, Richard contemplates changing out of this fucking get-up and into something more comfortable. Black suits is all he seems to wear these days. Paul speaking distracts him from the idea.

“Then what's mine?” Paul asks with a lingering smile, his gaze fixated on the other man. Richard arches a brow at Paul. Silently, he considers it, searching his bruised face.

“Envy.”

Like he tends to do in response with most things, Paul laughs, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with crow's feet. Richard manages a faint smile himself. Past his giggling, Paul asks, “Really? How so?”

“Envious of the others' successes,” Richard begins to say with a smug smirk on his face, idly playing with his black tie as he spoke, “A desire to climb the ranks, but failing to do so due to your lack of a drive, or skill. F and C have more control than you. More to bring to the table. O hasn't surpassed you simply because he's 'sloth'. He doesn't care much about this bullshit.”

Grinning, Paul shrugs and then lifts his hands to thread them together behind his head.

“Well, wouldn't envy also apply to you?”

“I've only been here for four months,” Richard remarks easily, “I have time to catch up. You have been with them for, what did you say—three years?”

Paul says nothing. His grin softens to a smile. He shrugs again.

“Alright, if I'm envy, then what about the others? Please don't say F is lust.”

That has Richard cracking a laugh. He shakes his head, grimacing slightly with a seldom seen grin on his face.

“Fuck no. He's... Gluttony. Because... I don't know. He's a selfish prick.”

Laughing aloud, Paul claps his hands together, grinning broadly.

“Funny though, considering he could be blown away from a particularly strong gust of wind!”

Richard snorts. He rises from the leather couch then, with a squeak of the leather. Paul watches him as he paces up to the cabinet where he kept his liquor, musing with a laugh, “C would be wrath, right?”

“Yeah,” Richard says, pulling open the cabinet with his right hand and then reaching in to grab the half-empty bottle of flavorless vodka. Pacing through the living room, with Paul's eyes trained on him, he steps into the kitchen and grabs a glass.

“Explanation is unnecessary, obviously,” Richard calls, and then asks, “You want some?”

Paul rises from the armchair, rubbing at the back of his neck as he paces out into the kitchen, joining the other man. Richard glances over with an arched brow. Paul nods, giving him a faint smile. Richard eyes him up and down, and then turns back to the counter. He grabs Paul a glass. He pours them half-full with vodka, saying, “I have Coke and, uh... That's it.”

“I'll take some Coke,” Paul pipes up, to which Richard lazily gestures to the fridge with his bandaged hand, while pouring more vodka into his own glass. Glad to do so, Paul steps up to it and pulls it open to dig a Coke out of the case. He rolls it around in his hands, standing beside Richard at the counter with a content smile on his scarred face. Richard eyes him, watching his giddy expression as he screwed the cap back onto the vodka—he keeps the bottle pinned to his chest with his bandaged hand, considering he can't particularly _hold_ it anymore.

Paul cracks open the Coke and pours himself the remainder of his drink, and then sets the Coke on the counter, refilling his hand with the glass of vodka. He turns to face Richard, who continues watching him silently. Paul notices the intense stare in his gaze, blinking twice with bewilderment.

“What's up?” he prompts, before taking a sip of his drink—only to grimace slightly. The balance isn't particularly even, but he takes another drink regardless. Richard continues staring at him, glass of vodka clutched in his functioning hand. He speaks lowly, regaining Paul's attention from the bitter drink.

“Why are you even here? I beat the shit out of you last week. You had a mild concussion,” Richard says bluntly, glancing across Paul's bruised face, which flickers with faint surprise. He goes on, “Or are you just quick to forgive men who kick your ass?”

That familiar (vaguely infuriating) faint smile reappears on Paul's face. He glances down to his drink, watching the murky liquid as he contemplates his response. Richard, meanwhile, doesn't care to pace himself. He downs the majority of the vodka, impatient to get drunk and numb his pain and irritation. Paul lets out a breath, flicking his eyes back up to meet Richard's.

“Well, I did deserve it. I purposefully said shit that I knew would make you snap,” he says, continuing to smile with a strange warmth in his gray eyes. Richard has seen him put that look on whenever he's masking his underlying feelings, or motivations. It's manipulative, and Richard doesn't trust it. He squints at the other man. Paul goes on, shrugging dismissively as he says, “And you're my brother. Among us, fights tend to happen when patience has run thin. I mean, I don't trust you yet, but you don't need my trust to be forgiven. Hell, I would have to forgive you anyways, since T told me to—not that his instruction is what made me forgive you in the first place.”

He's rambling, he realizes, so he shuts his mouth. That smile reclaims its place. Richard continues eying him, searching his face. He takes another silent drink of his vodka and then sets it down on the counter with a clink of glass. He nods. Surprising Paul, he goes on to ask, “O told me you went berserk after C and T left. Care to tell me why? Or was that just redirected anger towards me?”

Paul rolls his gaze from Richard to the kitchen table, sighing. A smirk sits hidden behind Richard's tightly pressed lips. Paul is rubbing his thumb against the edge of his glass, his brow knitting.

“I was angry, yeah,” Paul mutters, keeping his gaze trained elsewhere. Richard says nothing, watching him. Paul's jaw clenches, he notices. Paul flicks his gaze back to Richard and says plainly, “I was angry that that happened to you. I was angry at you for being a fucking idiot and letting it happen.”

“Why?” Richard immediately prods, face schooled and green eyes trained on Paul's tense face. Paul runs his tongue between his lips, letting out a breath. Hesitating, he doesn't provide an answer at first. Searching in Richard's stony eyes, Paul eventually speaks up, saying, “Because I care about your well-being. If you lose use of a hand, then it will be harder for you to be among us. And leaving or being kicked out of the group... You know what you signed up for.”

“You care about me, yet you don't trust me?” Richard remarks, a smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. Paul tilts his head impatiently, his silver earrings shaking from the motion, and looks at the other man with faint annoyance.

“Those are different things.”

“Well, what can I do to gain your trust, Paul?”

The smirk toying at Richard's lips breaks over his mouth entirely when he sees the sudden flush to Paul's cheeks. Averting his gaze, Paul first glances at the counter, and then his feet, and then he reluctantly looks at the other man again. His face is tinted, his lips no longer smiling. His eyes are like an open book. Richard can read the faint discomfort in them, the curiosity, shadowed by something bright and maybe hopeful. Paul speaks in a firm murmur, voice low and unlike him, his gray eyes boring into the other man's.

“I'm sure you'll figure something out, Richard.”

Amused, Richard searches Paul's flustered expression, his smirk extending into a slight grin, exposing a sliver of teeth. Reaching up, Richard gently, carefully grasps Paul by his chin, forefinger curled underneath his jaw with his thumb resting atop the curve of his chin. Paul tenses up slightly, looking up at him with a harder look in his eyes. Richard, continuing to grin, speaks lowly, searching in the other man's gaze as he says, “I'm sorry for hurting you. It was uncalled for. I'll try and be better about my anger in the future.”

The smirk lingering on Richard's face has doubt forming within Paul, but despite that, hearing him say this still softens him. That smile finally blooms on his face again. He laughs lightly.

“Somehow, I get the feeling that getting your hand carved into will better your behavior more than this promise.”

Richard stares at him, his smirk dropping. He eyes him, frowning, and then drops his hand from his face. Paul laughs again, watching the other man retreat to his vodka. As he downs the rest of it, Richard shoots a harmless glare his way, before he says, “Shut up and finish your drink. Don't waste my vodka.”

Tipping his head politely, sarcastically towards him with a cheeky grin, Paul then brings his glass to his lips and does as he's told.

 

* * *

 

At the firing range, Richard uses his functionless hand to steady the wrist of the hand clutching the pistol. It takes patience and effort to become accustomed to this adjustment. With time and practice, his shots become increasingly accurate, the unsteadiness in his right hand tamed and controlled. He, too, learns how to reload one-handed. The determination to remain equal among the other five has him surmounting this handicap, disregarding his bitterness towards Christoph and anger with himself.

Meanwhile, Paul seems to be the only man among the other five on his side. But perhaps that's to be expected: Flake doesn't care about anyone but Till, Ollie is a lone wolf more than anything, and, much like Flake, Christoph dislikes everyone besides Till. Till is always on everyone's side, it seems, though that is also what he _claims_. It's only when Richard is watching a movie alone in the office one night, three months since the incident, does he come to realize that it is entirely true.

The interior is unlit, the flickering lights of _Reservoir Dogs_ casting through the nearly empty, darkened room. Richard sits alone on the expansive couch, his suit coat unbuttoned and tie undone, his phone in his right hand, his other arm lazily resting along the back of the couch. He fails to notice Till's entrance and the clicking of his cane due to his focus on texting back Paul and the overlapping noise of the movie.

It's only when he enters his peripheral vision, hulking and massive with that fucking mohawk, does Richard nearly shit himself, realizing Till had joined him unannounced. He jolts, shocked, and looks up at Till with wide eyes, stammering, “T! Uh, hey.”

“Do you mind if I join you?” Till asks, gazing down at him with an unreadable expression. Richard hesitates. He's _asking?_ He gestures to the couch with a lift of his hand.

“Sure. Plenty of room.”

“You're lacking P,” Till comments as he carefully, slowly lowers himself down onto the couch a few seats away from Richard. He rests his cane against his knee and trains his expressionless gaze on the younger. Richard laughs dryly. He sets his phone aside on the armrest of the couch and glances towards Till.

“Rare these days, huh? He's found a leg to cling to.”

“P sought a friend,” Till remarks, unbuttoning his suit coat and relaxing back against the leather couch. He averts his gaze to the TV, though Richard knows he doesn't give a shit about movies. Richard presses his lips together, staring at the other man.

“Do you not consider yourself a friend?”

“Perhaps,” he answers, side-eying him with the faintest gleam of amusement in his green eyes, “At the very least, we consider each other _comrades_. Loyal to each other, ready to sacrifice for the other man. But, friendship... That is different. I doubt P trusts any of us. He seldom trusts himself.”

He pauses, and then goes on to say with a lifted finger, “Let me rephrase what I've said: he doesn't trust any of us, except you.”

Richard searches Till's (handsome) profile and then glances away to the TV. His vision becomes unfocused, his thoughts straying away to the night he shared with Paul months ago now. Maybe that had become the forming of that trust, despite Richard's sarcasm. But... Why is Paul so distrustful to begin with?

Then again, in this line of work, it's laughable to question that. Richard smiles faintly to himself.

“Disregarding P,” Till begins to say, jerking Richard's attention back to the other man, “What, exactly, are we watching?”

Letting out a breath, Richard's light smile returns. He stands from the couch then, sliding his phone back into the pocket of his slacks. Stepping up to the TV, he reaches out and turns it off with a click of the screen. Turning to face Till with his hands in his pockets, Richard directs that slight smile his way. Till watches him with a faintly arched brow. Richard shrugs.

“Nothing. Say, want to grab a drink with me, T? You seem like a whiskey kind of guy.”

 

* * *

 

A dinner hosted by Tägtgren holds many men dressed in various suits and formal wear. Women cling to the hip of their promising futures, the prospect of fortune—smiling and laughing, flirting, displaying themselves like property of those men. Tables of rich food and drink sits in a ring within the grand dining room, surrounded by affiliates and members who exchange artificial conversation.

T is the center of attention when it comes to the women who seek a handsome, confident man. His politeness keeps him chained to their whims, witnessed by many others who watch with knowing grins. Among the crowd of people, Paul comes to realize he knows few of these people, only by face—it's all so fake. And overwhelming. Till is preoccupied, Christoph is lingering nearby with no interest in messing around, and Ollie is missing—probably hanging out with the kids, providing them with the attention that they surely lack from their haughty parents. (Though he simply wants to get away from the bullshit, so really, he's using their existence as a tool). That leaves Paul with Flake, and Flake is currently stuffing his mouth full of olives to avoid conversation, standing lanky and awkward beside the smaller man.

Irritated and claustrophobic, Paul shoves away from the table, earning a disinterested glance from Flake. He navigates his way through the swarm of laughing, talking, gluttonous people, desperate for the cool air of the night to give him a reprieve. He bitterly hopes no one else had the same idea—sharing a balcony is awkward when conversation is the one thing he doesn't want to have.

Eventually, he finds the sliding glass door that leads to the expansive balcony. He pulls it open, emerging from the crowd with a scowl and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. The cool air swallows him whole, and it feels amazing. He sighs heavily in relief, and then sighs again when he realizes there's another man. Although, what asshole would style his hair like that unless it was Richard?

Raking his fingers through his hair, Paul stares at the back of the other man, until said man lazily turns his head and looks back at him with a cocked brow. A cigarette is between his teeth. He huffs when he realizes it's Paul.

“Hey, dick, you have to suffer with us,” Paul calls as he steps up to the railing, standing beside the other man. He reeks of cigarette smoke. Paul grimaces slightly. Richard grunts and lifts his right hand to clutch the cigarette between his forefinger and thumb. Pulling it from his lips, he stares at it, watching the smoke curl from the smoldering tip. Paul doesn't do the same; instead, he watches Richard's face. He realizes he shaved for the occasion.

“It seems you came to make up for it,” Richard remarks dryly, eyes lidded and trained on the starry sky as he brings the cigarette back to his lips. Paul's lack of laughter earns Richard's curious glance. Paul is staring out towards the sky too, his expression hard and pensive. Richard arches a brow.

“Something up?” he asks, nudging him on the bicep with his elbow. Paul lets out a slight dismissive noise and then settles his gaze on the other man. He smiles at him, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes like it tends to.

“Just tired. And I have shit on my mind.”

“What kind of shit?”

Paul's smile sours slightly. Richard searches his face. Paul shrugs and reaches out to fold his arms atop the railing, leaning into them and gazing down at the view below.

“The shit that I really don't want to have to deal with.”

“Is it that self-depreciating kind of shit, or the 'what the fuck am I doing?' kind of shit?”

“Uh. Mostly the latter.”

“Mm.”

“Have I ever seemed self-depreciating to you, R?”

When Paul looks back at him, Richard gives him a faint smirk. He searches in Paul's vaguely concerned eyes as he plucks his spent cigarette from his lips. He exhales a stream of smoke into the air, angling it away from the other man. Then he looks down, towards his hand—the hand that is gruesomely scarred. Paul follows his gaze and then blinks, surprised that he's missing his leather glove. And even more so when Richard brings the cigarette down to put it out onto the scar with a sizzling of flesh.

“Hey—!” Paul growls, jerking his hand out to slap the cigarette from his hand. It goes flying down, to ultimately land in Tägtgren's pool. Richard huffs.

“Calm down.”

“Why the hell are you doing that?” Paul snaps with angered shock on his face, “That's stupid as fuck, Richard. Don't be dramatic, Jesus Christ.”

Richard laughs aloud, further surprising the other man. Paul watches him like he's fucking crazy, his eyes widened and brow furrowed, lips twisted in a confused frown. Richard looks at him with amusement, mouth curled into a broad, teeth-revealing grin. He taps at the back of his ruined hand, beside the fresh burn mark.

“This isn't the first time, Paul. Chill out. It's a reminder.”

“Oh, that you're going to kill C or something? You're not living in a movie,” Paul remarks, throwing a hand up. Richard smiles at him. Paul eyes him. Richard continues smiling at him. Paul begins to look concerned. Richard then snorts and reaches out to hook his arm around Paul's neck, pulling him in closer to knock him against his side. Paul sputters and presses his hands to Richard's back and stomach. Richard plants a spontaneous kiss against Paul's forehead, and then announces, “A reminder that I will be _better_ than C. And better than myself. I don't think I would gain anything from killing him. I don't care about my hand that much, honestly. I care more about the fact that I lost my cool, and thus, faced the consequence of it.”

Paul, still recovering from the fact that Richard just kissed his forehead (yes, he is most certainly drunk from the champagne), takes a second to absorb what he just said. He huffs and says, still pinned to Richard's side with his cheek against his chest, “Yeah, that's still really dramatic.”

Paul giggles when Richard shoves him away, stumbling back on his feet. Richard flips him off, though there's a smile on his face. Paul winks at him and then steps back up to his side. Richard pulls out his cigarette pack and flips it open, only to find himself lacking his cancer accelerant. He grumbles and shoves the pack back into his slacks, saying, “Well, pain is a good motivation, either way.”

“Sure, it is,” Paul agrees wholeheartedly with a smile. He reaches out to pat Richard on the back, saying, “Let's get out of here. There's nothing for us here.”

 

Familiar with the location of Richard's apartment, Paul effortlessly drives them back to his place in Richard's black Audi, while said man impatiently flips through his music selection on the stereo. He fails to decide on a single song before Paul parks the car at the apartment complex.

In his apartment, Paul slaps on the living room light, breaking the darkness. Richard paces up to him and the light switch, and reaches out to turn it back off. Laughing, Paul looks at what he thinks is Richard in the darkness.

“What?”

“Keep it off.”

“Okay. You're acting really weird.”

“Eh.”

Paul hears, and vaguely sees, him stumble through the living room, before realizing he could use his phone as a light source just to see where the fuck he's going. Paul watches him open a closet, and then proceed to throw pillow after pillow towards the couch. Most miss. Paul snorts and steps up to begin gathering them.

“On the floor,” Richard says, swinging the bright phone screen towards Paul, which has the other man squinting. Paul nods. His eyes are beginning to adjust, with the help of Richard's phone, so he can kind of see what he's doing. He positions the pillows against the bottom of the couch, on the floor. Richard joins him with an armful of blankets. He dumps it onto their feet. Paul laughs again, and then reaches out to begin unraveling them. Meanwhile, Richard tends to the TV and puts a movie on.

Soon enough, Paul is the last one standing, watching Richard get comfortable under the layers of blankets on the floor, among the sea of pillows. Unsure of what to do, Paul just watches him, smiling incredulously. With the TV now illuminating the living room, Paul can see his face. Richard's wild hair is now messy, though without design like it tends to have, and his eyes are blinking slowly. He then looks up at Paul and says, “What are you doing? Lay down.”

Paul hesitates a moment, continuing to smile faintly, and then obliges. He lowers himself to join Richard on the floor. Richard shifts to give him more room. Paul debates whether or not to get under the blankets, though Richard decides for him by saying impatiently with a nudge of his hand against Paul's hip, “Get under the blankets, you moron. You've complained about how cold my apartment is so many fucking times—I swear to God, if I have to hear it again, I'm going to slap the shit out of you.”

That has Paul laughing. He nods with a broad grin and lets Richard pull the blankets over him. And then, Paul realizes, he's laying with the other man underneath these blankets, their feet haphazardly knocked together. Richard is laying on his side, head turned to face the TV, with his hand in his hair, scratching at his scalp. Paul feels tense, like something is boiling inside him, just under his ribcage. He winces at himself when he recognizes it as anticipation.

Then he realizes Richard put on _Natural Born Killers_. Groaning aloud, Paul slaps his hands over his face and drags them down slowly, growling with annoyance, “Richard, is Tarantino all you fucking watch?”

“Yep.”

“Bye.”

Paul gets up from underneath the blankets, expecting a fight or at least a protest—but instead he's only given a weak reach of a hand from Richard and a feeble, “Wait... No...”

Then Richard drops his hand back down onto the blankets, where Paul once laid, and focuses on the opening scene again. Paul grins. He nearly laughs, but doesn't want to give Richard that satisfaction. Before he could decide what to do next, whether it be rejoin him or forcefully change the movie just to aggravate the other man, Richard speaks up again, this time more firmly, “Paul, change the movie if you want, I don't give a shit. But you either lay here on the floor with me, or leave. You dragged me from the party, so I get to choose what we're doing.”

“And laying on the floor together is what you want to do,” Paul remarks, crossing his arms and looking down at the other man with an amused smile. Richard flicks his glassy eyes up to Paul and says, “Yes.”

Paul nods. He can tell he's just lonely—Richard is simply god awful at addressing his problems, or in this case his feelings, without some aggression mixed in. Paul leaves the movie as it is; he doesn't really care, in the end. He lowers back down onto the floor and rejoins Richard under the blankets.

As soon as Paul's head meets the pillows, Richard rises up onto an elbow. He reaches out to grasp Paul by the jaw, fingers pressing into his cheeks, and leans in to kiss him by crushing their lips together. Beyond startled by the suddenness of it, Paul recoils back into the pillows, though Richard easily follows, his grip forceful on his face. Paul feels his lips move against his own. It's extremely weird and sudden. Though not entirely unwanted. Paul's conflicted thoughts are, somehow, racing faster than his heart.

Richard isn't stopping. Paul doubts he will until he gets some sort of reciprocation. So, giving into those shadowing feelings that he's been insistently neglecting for months now, Paul reluctantly returns the kiss with slow purses of his mouth, eyes open and trained on Richard's eyelids. Richard shifts, encouraged by his response, and gains a better angle to increase the intensity of their kiss. Paul is becoming vaguely uncomfortable, conflicted with what they shouldn't be doing and what he _wants_ to do. Either way, he just lets his eyes slide shut and raises his hands to clutch messy fistfuls of Richard's stupid gelled hair.

The wet, messy sounds of their heated kissing joins the noise of the movie. Richard is panting against his lips between each purse of their mouths, which is not sexy at all, but it has Paul repressing an ill-timed smile regardless. Richard is attempting to initiate tongue, but Paul isn't latching onto it, so instead he breaks the kiss to mouth sloppily at Paul's jaw and throat. Paul laughs and says, “Richard, we are not doing this. You're drunk, and I'm going home.”

“I _am_ , but, no, you're _not_ ,” Richard mutters, pressing a final kiss against Paul's throat, the collar of his suit coat pushed aside. Paul snorts. He pats Richard on the shoulder and waits for him to pull away. Richard does, but not entirely. He lingers close to Paul, laying partially on top of him with their noses nearly touching. He searches in Paul's eyes, glances over the rugged burn scar across the right side of his face. Paul gives him a plain smile, eyebrows raised.

“Did that do anything for you, at all?” Richard asks, his face hardening. Paul blinks. He lets out a slight laugh, dropping his gaze to Richard's mouth.

“If you mean, did I get hard from that? No. But I... Uh. I didn't _dislike_ it.”

“So you liked it.”

“So-so,” Paul remarks cheekily, with a grin spreading over his lips. Richard rolls his eyes, which earns a sharp laugh from the other man. Richard moves off of him, but stays close. He lays down, his head against Paul's chest, arm around his midsection. Paul feels heat burst into his face from that.

“Didn't take you as the type to cuddle,” Paul murmurs, heart alight and cheeks hot. Richard grumbles.

“I'm not. I just want to hold you. Christ. Get off my dick.”

“Really? Here I was, thinking that's exactly what you wanted.”


	3. Ich Will Eure Blicke Spuehren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Till trusts Christoph. Christoph respects Till.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "I want to feel your eyes on me"

The vibrant, flashing lights are blinding. It gives him a headache. He loathes the lust, the gluttony, the greed that suffocates the atmosphere of a night club scene like this. The inhalation of drug, the obsession with acquiring sex, the mindless consumption of alcohol. Christoph feels like there's something crawling under his skin, just being here.

But he has to be. Because Richard is a problematic, useless child who cannot function as he should, nor on his own. And yet, Till insists on his value.

Christoph is scowling deeply, shoving his way past the vermin that occupy this club. The pulsating bass vibrates in his teeth as he makes his way past the floor, crossing circular sofas and tables that hold drunk, laughing people. Alcohol and sweat is pungent in the air. The pure density of the people results in sweat to brew on his brow.

He prowls the dance floor, and fails to find Richard, so instead he ascends to the second floor. There, he combs through every table, every seat, every couch, until he finds the troublesome asshole in the corner booth, sitting with two women who must have been woefully drawn in by his misleading looks.

Richard is bent in over the table, and only when he recoils back against the back of the couch does Christoph realize he was doing a line. Curling his lip with disgust, Christoph strides up to the booth, earning a hazy glance from the other man. His eyes widen upon realizing it was indeed Christoph, here to kick his ass by Till's order. Or so he thought.

As much as Christoph would enjoy doing so right in that moment, he has to restrain himself. Instead, he reaches out and grabs a rough, white-knuckled fistful of his suit coat. Glaring deeply into Richard's wide eyes, Christoph growls dangerously above the noise of the music, “Get your _ass_ out of this booth, R.”

“What's your problem, pretty boy?” Richard bellows, followed by a broad grin and a laugh. The women join his laughter, entirely clueless of what's going on. Christoph, through narrowed eyes, watches Richard nearly keel over from laughter, his face lit up with delight and amusement. Christoph's other hand squeezes into a painful fist.

Tilting his head, cloudy and blue eyes chillingly cold, he looks into Richard's wide, rapidly blinking eyes as he says, “T isn't responsible for what I choose to do to you. It would be wise to get up and come with me, you insignificant piece of shit.”

“Woah!” Richard shouts, lifting his hands defensively with raised eyebrows and a grin, “And here I thought you liked me, C!”

By now, the women have gone silent, watching with vague fear and equal attraction to the new addition to their little party. Narrowing his eyes at the other man, Christoph bares his teeth and snarls, “I can show you just what I think of you, R.”

He releases his suit coat to instead squeeze his gloved hand around Richard's throat, shoving his head back into the wall behind him with a muted thud, barely heard past the vibrating bass of the club's music. Richard's grinning face twists into a grimace, his eyes rolling shut. The women then gladly grab their purses and take their leave, coming to realize this is more than they're willing to linger for.

“Let me go, you fucking freak,” Richard growls, slightly distorted from the grasp around his throat. When Christoph sees him reach his right hand into his suit coat, he narrows his eyes and then with his other hand, he points it and thrusts it under Richard's ribcage, below his sternum.

Richard lets out a pained grunt and jerks forward violently as a reflexive response, to which Christoph releases his throat for him to collapse atop the cluttered tabletop, sending a few bottles rolling onto the floor. Christoph readjusts the glove on his hand, watching Richard cough into the powdery residue of the crack he had consumed only a minute ago.

“Get. Up,” Christoph commands, his growling voice raised above the noise of the club. He wants to leave, before security is summoned and gets in the way. Richard seems to have regained a sliver of his wit, considering he silently, sluggishly slid out from the booth and staggered onto his feet. He collapses against Christoph, who grabs onto his biceps and rights him with disgust.

“You're completely intoxicated,” Christoph spits, grimacing at the other sweaty, disoriented man. Richard lets out a few weak, pained laughs and says with slow blinks, “And fucking _high_. I can't walk yet, you shithead.”

“You have no self-control,” Christoph sighs, unheard by Richard, who begins to babble about how fucking shitty this night has been. Hooking his arm around Richard's midsection while winding Richard's arm around his shoulders, Christoph turns them and begins to practically drag him to the stairs. This will be _fun_.

Eventually, Christoph manages to get Richard out of the soul-sucking night club and into the cool night air. Richard remains slumped against his side, while Christoph pulls out his phone and dials a cab number. Then suddenly Richard speaks, slurred and heavy.

“Christoph, why did you come and get me? Shoulda left me to fucking rot... Dying high from coke. What a way t'go, huh? ”

“I was ordered by T,” Christoph answers as he brings his phone to his ear, slightly irritated that he called him by his full name, “Who told me P called _him_ , concerned that's exactly what you were trying to do.”

“Then why did P fuckin' leave me if he thought I was tryin' to kill myself?” Richard growls, grabbing a weak fistful of Christoph's suit coat and shaking him a bit. Rolling his eyes, Christoph pans his gaze up to the night sky as he waits for the cab line to pick up, readjusting his hold on Richard's waist. He speaks lowly, voice a growl.

“Because you're an insufferable prick who thinks only of himself. P most likely decided that would've been a beneficial outcome.”

When he's given only silence, Christoph drops his gaze to look at Richard's sweaty, flushed face. His eyes are narrowed, brow knit and lips twisted into a scowl. The other end on the phone picks up, so Christoph ignores the sulking Richard and describes their location.

 

* * *

 

The intense glow of plum and crimson lights casts a mixed lighting onto the inhabitants of the strip club, late at night on a Thursday. Christoph paces through the lobby and dancing area with intention to reach the backroom, but comes to a stop when he realizes Till is standing at the bar, speaking with the bartender. His cane is gripped in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other. Christoph's eye twitches. He begins towards the pair.

Overlapped by the pulsing music, Christoph can hardly catch what they're talking about as he approaches, though it soon doesn't matter once Till notices his presence. He stops speaking mid-sentence and fixes his intense stare on the younger man. Christoph juts his chin up in greeting and then shows him the manila envelope he held in his hand. Till stares at it, and then refocuses his attention on the bartender.

He thanks him for the drink, gives him a kind smile, and bids him goodnight, before he turns to Christoph and grabs him by the wrist. Invigorated by the touch, Christoph willingly follows Till to the door that opens up into the bleak hallway, which connects to their back office.

Once they're within the office, Till shuts and locks the door. He releases Christoph's wrist. Christoph gives Till the faintest perk of a smile once his intense green eyes fix on him again. He holds out the envelope. Till takes it and stares at Christoph a moment longer. Then he turns and approaches the leather sectional with clicks of his brace and taps of the cane against the hardwood floor. Christoph follows.

Seated together, Christoph watches him open the manila envelope and reach in. He withdraws the papers within, and begins to scan them silently. Christoph speaks quietly, hushed for only Till to hear, his gaze trained on Till's face.

“Fetching the morning paper is the only window during his schedule where execution is most likely to be successful,” he says. With his cloudy and blue eyes flicking down, Christoph witnesses Till setting his broad hand down on his knee, over the sleek fabric of his slacks. Training his intense gaze on Till's stony face again, Christoph's breath wavers slightly as he whispers, “Tell me when and it will be done, T.”

After a moment of silence, Till averts his gaze from the papers to look at the other man. Christoph searches deeply in Till's eyes, waiting for his response. Till nods. He sets aside the envelope.

“However long it takes you to prepare,” Till murmurs, gazing at him—noticeably, at his pretty lips. Christoph smiles. He nods, his faint smile lingering. Till's lips curl into a reciprocating smile, pleased to see that expression on his brother's face. A smile on Christoph's face is like a blue moon in the night sky. Till squeezes Christoph's knee and then brings his hand up to gingerly stroke the back of his fingers down over Christoph's cheek. Christoph's eyelids flutter slightly, his breath catching.

“You're so willing under my touch,” Till says lowly, a deep rumble in his throat. Christoph's tongue peeks out to brush between his thin lips, wetting them, his eyes, both cloudy and icy blue, trained on Till's.

Christoph shudders as Till runs his broad thumb down over his cheek, to settle over his chin. Raising his hand to cautiously rest it over Till's wrist, Christoph speaks, hushed, “There is more to me than just my face. More of me for you to test with your touch.”

“Is that what you want, Christoph?” Till asks, tracing his bottom lip with his thumb. Christoph mouth falls open slightly—he shudders again, hearing the other man murmur his full name. His deep, beautiful voice is crawling through him, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his flesh. He nods, nails digging slightly into Till's skin at his wrist. Till's full lips curl up into a faint smile.

“Why don't you be a good boy and show me where.”

Christoph blinks widely, his pale blue eye searching in Till's. His boyish face flushes with a pink—it has Till's smile breaking into a slight smirk, revealing a sliver of teeth. Christoph is truly never in a flustered state, but now, Till can witness this in him; his hands shake ever so slightly as he brings his fingers to his tie. Lips pressed together, Christoph silently unravels it and slides it off of his shoulders to let it fall to the floor. Till watches him, eyes lidded and interested.

Surprising him, Christoph gets up and boldly moves to straddle his thighs, careful not to bump his leg brace. Till looks up at him with a subtle smile, his vibrant green eyes pleased. He lowers his broad hands to rest them around Christoph's thighs, over the sleek black fabric of his slacks. Christoph's face is unreadable, schooled once again save for the flush to his cheeks, as he draws off his suit coat. He lets it slip from his arms to join his tie on the floor. Maintaining eye contact with his superior, Christoph begins to gradually unbutton the white undershirt.

Soon enough, Christoph slides the shirt from his shoulders, down his arms, to reveal his upper half to Till. Till sweeps his gaze down from Christoph's charming eyes, over his pretty lips, down to his flat chest and belly. His arms are thin, but defined with muscle. His ribcage is ribbed with muscle, his stomach hardened with the beginnings of abs; he's quite fit. He's more agile than brawny, so his muscle mass in comparison to Till's is severely insignificant.

And he's just beautiful this way. Till sweeps his calloused hands up from Christoph's thighs. He strokes his thumbs over his protruding hips, which earns a shiver from the other man, and then runs his caress higher up across his torso. Gaze trained on Christoph's pale body, Till lets his blunt fingertips trace over his flat stomach, which is dotted with birth marks, he notices. He thumbs at his belly button. Till doesn't look into his eyes as he curls his big hands around Christoph's sides, only to draw them up to cup his ribcage. He feels it expand and deflate in his hold.

Finally flicking his cool gaze upwards, Till meets Christoph's eyes. Christoph's expression is weaker, his eyes soft and mouth slightly open.

“Can I touch you, T?” he murmurs, his beautiful face shockingly submissive. Till is silently surprised by this.

Meanwhile, Christoph feels unlike himself around the other man; Till is powerful, handsome, and has complete control over him. He respects him, greatly. And that is enough to reduce Christoph to his knees.

Till nods.

Keeping his wide hands wrapped gently around Christoph's ribcage, Till gazes up at him, watching him carefully raise his hands to rest them on both sides of his neck. Christoph searches his face, admiring his striking features: his hauntingly green eyes, his prominent lips, his strong nose.

Christoph is far from an affectionate person. He tends to admire through sight alone. Thus, he spends very little time actually _touching_ him. Rather than stroke at his face like Till had done to him, he simply angles his head and leans in to kiss him, calmly, slowly, with closed eyes.

Till's hands squeeze gently at his sides. He slides them down over his soft skin, leaving behind only desire in their wake, a desire for him to touch _more_. Till's hands settle on his hips as he returns the kiss Christoph had boldly initiated. Hands cradling his jaw, Christoph purses his mouth against Till's, cautiously, without force. Till reciprocates willingly, his lips firm against Christoph's. Christoph's lips are soft and thin—he finds himself enjoying the kiss.

The kiss itself doesn't last too long. Christoph gives a final purse of his mouth against Till's, and then draws back just enough to meet his gaze. Till watches him silently, face unreadable. Christoph searches in his eyes. He doesn't find any resemblance of discomfort or distaste. So he leans back in, clutching at the nape of Till's neck. Till's mohawk is stiff under his fingers. Christoph presses his mouth against Till's again, this time more forcefully.

The hot, drifting touch of Till's calloused hands up along his back has Christoph shuddering. Till kisses him easily, slowly, deeply, and Christoph is swept away by the rush of it.

They've kissed before. But not like this. This setting, this position, this arrangement—it's a prime setup for something more. And that has anticipation boiling up inside of Christoph, ready to burst out of him like steam from a tea kettle. Simmering underneath his skin, eager for more of Till, for more of his touch.

The wet, dirty sounds of their moving lips fills the office of the strip club, joined by the distant beat of the club's music. Till's broad hands are sliding down his back, along the curve of his spine. And then up his sides, across pale skin dotted with birthmarks and twisting scars. Christoph is clutching almost desperately at Till; holding his jaw, cupping the back of his head, the sides of his neck—effectively unraveling the lower segments of his mohawk.

Christoph has never been consumed by lust like this before. Sex and drugs are the two sins of crime life that he has hardly any interest in. They decompose a man's body, his sense, his self-respect. The highs that come with those acts aren't valuable enough to him. But with Till, he can feel that desire curling in him and lapping at his insides like a roaring fire, ready to swallow him whole. He _would_ let this desire decompose his sense for this man—and it _is_.

Only when the kiss becomes open-mouthed and overwhelmingly heated with the slide of tongue does Christoph pull away. Slightly panting, he gazes into Till's calm eyes with lust in his own. Drifting his tongue over his thin lips, Christoph slides his hands from Till's nape, to rest on his jaw again.

“Warn me if I overstep boundaries, T,” Christoph says. Till arches a brow at him, kissed lips curling up faintly. Christoph then slides off his lap, to settle between his spread knees. He kneels atop the hardwood floor, hands sliding up across Till's thick thighs. He can feel the impressive, prominent muscle through the smooth fabric of his slacks. Till looks down at him with amused eyes. A calm, subtle smile lingers on his lips as he asks lowly, “Is this what you want?”

Christoph feels a heat burn in his face.

“Yes. But is that acceptable to you?”

After a silent moment of contemplation, Till then reaches out, which has Christoph tensing up just slightly, his cloudy and blue eyes tracking the movement of his hand. Till cups his cheek and strokes a thumb down over Christoph's swollen, kissed lips—his bottom lip drags along with his thumb. In a low rumble, Till speaks, green eyes lidded.

“You're my pretty boy, Christoph,” he says, “I want you in all forms, even that of lust.”


	4. Ich Will Eure Stimme Hoeren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A typical shake down goes wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "I want to hear your voice"
> 
> Warning for lots of blood.

It was meant to be a simple task. An in-and-out shake down that they do weekly, if not semi-daily. Debt is a vicious poison that many men of this city have faced with their organization. Debt is something that _must_ be collected. If not, the respect is slackened. The organization will not be disrespected, nor will it be taken advantage of.

Thus, Richard and Paul have been sent to handle one of their “victims” who has been avoiding their calls. He had taken the foolish loan to get his restaurant business back up on its feet, a year ago now. And now, the time to collect has come.

At 11:32 in the morning on a Wednesday, Richard and Paul casually enter the indicated restaurant wearing sharp suits and false smiles. The hostess that greets them doesn't seem to sense they're not here for service; she asks if there's only the two of them to be seated, to which Richard replies with a thin smile and piercing eyes: “Go into the back and get the owner. We'd like to speak to him.”

She does as she's told, but with apprehension on her face. Richard slides his hands into the pockets of his slacks and pans his eyes across the restaurant—it's mostly empty, save for two occupied tables. He fixes his gaze on Paul. Paul looks tense, and focused. His brow is knit, jaw clenched and eyes hard. Glancing down, Richard can see his fingers fidgeting: clenching, relaxing, locking again.

“Hey, P. We just got here,” Richard says, nudging him on the bicep with his elbow, “No need to look like you're ready to kill a man.”

He's well-aware that that's just how Paul is. When it comes to work, that's what he hyper-fixates on. He ripples with tension, with the readiness to strike with the force and speed of an arrow flying and sinking into the flesh of its recipient. Richard just doesn't need him to get the guy scared. A person who's scared is less likely to be compliant.

Paul's gray eyes flick up to meet Richard's. He blinks and then nods stiffly, his silver hoop earrings shaking from the motion.

“I'm fine. I'll relax once I see him.”

Searching his face, Richard sighs through his nose, and then nods himself.

“Alright.”

And then immediately after, they spot the same girl leading the owner towards them. Richard puts on a smile, as does Paul. The man looks anxious as he approaches. He clutches his hands together as soon as he reaches them and says with a shaky voice, “Gentlemen, welcome. How can I help you?”

“Do you have an office where we can have our discussion?” Richard asks, arching a brow. The other man seems reluctant at first, his face wrinkling with unease. After a moment's pause, he silently nods and turns away to begin towards the back door. Richard and Paul follow silently.

They cross into the kitchen, passing working chefs and assistants. The noise of the kitchen surrounds them: the clanging of pots deposited into a sink, the chopping of a knife against a cutting board, the bubbling of broth and the brushing of a sweeping broom. Witnessing the busy, bustling lives of everyday people has Richard wryly smirking. The door to his office is on the other end, beside the storage room. Richard glances back towards the preoccupied cooks as he waits for the owner and Paul to file in. He follows them in.

Once they're in his office, the man shuts the door behind them and paces around his desk to stand on the other end, hand placed on the back of his chair—using it as a wall between them, Richard notices. Paul speaks next, saying with his arms folded, “It's rude to ignore phone calls from us, Mr. Stein.”

“Ah, well,” he nervously laughs, running his hand over the back of the chair, “At my age, the only phone I use is at work, and, well, I suppose it's only been poor timing. What... What were you calling for?”

“I think you're aware,” Richard speaks up, turning away to leisurely pace up to the artwork hanging on the wall to his right. He gazes up at it—they're canvas recreations of Mucha's _The Seasons_. He isn't one to consume classic artworks, but Richard thinks they're pretty. The act of admiring the art is a part of the intimidation, either way. A predator at ease leaves the prey tense and uncertain. Paul continues, when the old man doesn't respond.

“We came to discuss repayment, regarding the loans you requested from the organization in 1998.”

With a cocked brow and his hands remaining in his pockets, Richard glances over to watch the owner anxiously smile and stammer with a shaky gesture to the desk of his drawer, “W-Would you like to see the records of the restaurant's income over the past year? From there, we can figure something out, gentlemen.”

Richard flicks his gaze over to Paul. Paul has a strained, forced smile on his face. They don't know shit about bookkeeping, nor particularly care. That's left to the accountants of the organization. They're just here to shake him down. But if that would keep him willing and cooperative, they would 'take a look'.

“Yes, we would,” Paul agrees, and uncrosses his arms. He glances to Richard and gestures to one end of the desk with a jut of his chin. Richard nods subtly and takes his hands from his slacks. Meanwhile, the old man draws open the desk drawer and reaches in.

Maybe if there had been any sign of aggression in the old man, Richard would've been more alert. But considering he seemed harmless and entirely submissive, Richard didn't have his hand on his gun. In a moment that seemed far too sudden, the other man withdrew a Walther handgun from the drawer, switched off the safety, locked the hammer, and pointed it at Paul. Shock hardly has time to register in both Paul and Richard before he pulls the trigger.

Due to the shakiness in his hand, rather than end up in Paul's stomach, the bullet hits off mark—in Paul's thigh.

The gunfire is loud and ringing in the small office, followed by Paul's pained growl that rips from his throat. He staggers back, to ultimately crash into the opposite wall and the bookcase that stands behind him. He then slides down to collapse onto the floor. Richard, wide-eyed, witnesses a thick gush of blood spurt from the freshly made hole in both Paul's leg and his slacks. Ears ringing, breath caught, heart pounding, Richard watches Paul's face contort into something agonized. Behind him, the large, wooden bookcase wobbles with a force that has it beginning to topple forward.

Regaining the function of his legs, Richard throws himself across the short length of the office to shove his hands out against the bookcase, flattening it back against the wall. A few books fall out to land on his feet and the carpet. Panting harshly, Richard looks down at Paul—the blood pooling around his thigh is alarming and is only growing in volume. Paul is breathing hard and fast, his hands kept raised and shaky.

In his moment of panic, Richard doesn't register that the other man is still armed. All he can think about is _stopping_ the bleeding. Falling to his knees at Paul's side, Richard shoots his hands out to press them flatly against the bullet wound, bearing his weight on it. Paul bares his teeth, hissing. His hard gray eyes flick up to fix on the man who shot him.

“I-I have no choice,” the owner of the restaurant stammers with a grimace on his face, the gun shaking in his grasp, “I haven't made back the money yet! I-I _can't_ , I can't lose the restaurant. It's all I have! I'm an old man, with no family and no fortune! What do you expect me to do?! I can't get out of this! You have to understand!”

When he redirects the gun to Richard, Paul's entire body seizes with tension. Richard is too preoccupied pressing down on Paul's gunshot wound, attempting to stifle the persistent flow of blood. He doesn't take notice of this exchange, nor the fact that a gun is being pointed at him. But, seeing Paul reach into his suit coat has Richard pausing. Within the length of a mere second, Richard witnesses him withdraw his semi-automatic handgun, point it at the man behind the desk, and fire it one, two, three, four, five times with rapid squeezes of his forefinger.

The purely malicious look on Paul's face is haunting. His eyes are sinister and dark, his brow set and lips in a focused line. Richard stares, hypnotized, until the thud of the man's body falling back against the wall earns a quick glance—Richard counts the five bloody entry wounds on the front of his shirt. Well, he won't live through that. Richard refocuses his attention on Paul.

Standing up, Richard desperately undoes and yanks off his belt, before kneeling at Paul's side again. With quick, steady hands, Richard gets it under Paul's leg and wraps it around his upper thigh. Paul calmly returns his gun to his underarm holster, and fixes his gaze on Richard, watching his focused expression as he tightens the belt around his thigh with a forceful pull—which has Paul wincing.

“Hold on, P, don't move,” Richard says, the slight wavering of panic hiding in the shadows of his voice. Paul grunts when Richard fastens the belt and then presses his blood-caked hands back down on the wound.

“Richard, we have to get the fuck out of here,” Paul says, reaching up to grab a fistful of Richard's collar, earning a shaky glance from sea green eyes. Richard searches in Paul's gaze and then nods. He gets up and crouches down beside Paul again, reaching out to slide his arms underneath his legs and back.

“I can walk!” Paul insists, wrapping an arm around Richard's neck. Richard grunts and readjusts him in his arms. With a scowl, Richard turns to the door, growling, “Are you fucking crazy? I don't want you bleeding anymore than you already are! Now shut the fuck up!”

Without waiting for a response, Richard busts open the office door with a forceful kick, which leads them into the kitchen. The cooks are missing. Avoiding the counters and racks, Richard carries Paul through the kitchen and towards the back door. He doesn't hear any screaming, and no one has come to investigate—they definitely called the cops.

“P, open the door,” Richard snaps as they approach the exit door. Paul is attentive enough to reach out and twist the lock, unlocking it, and then pushes it open, remaining silent. Richard would do it himself, but his hands are a little full at the moment.

Breaking out into the sunlight, both men squint. Richard immediately strides towards the parking lot, where his black Audi awaits their return. He's going to fucking hate getting blood all over the interior, but luckily for Paul, he values his life more than the cleanliness of his precious car.

“Fuck!” Richard growls when the problem of retrieving his keys makes its importance known. He sighs and says, “Paul, I have to get my keys. I need to set you down for a second. Can you handle that?”

Paul nods weakly. Richard looks at him—he's pale. His expression is grim. Richard feels absolutely choked with anxiety and lingering panic, but he ignores it in favor of getting this done. He carefully, slowly sets Paul down against the side of the car. Paul bears his weight against it, baring his grit teeth in pain. Richard quickly shoves his hand into his pants pocket and withdraws his keys. Despite his underlying hysteria, Richard manages to get his car unlocked and the back door opened.

Keys back in his pocket, Richard reaches out for Paul again, but Paul waves him off.

“I got this. Get in the driver's seat,” he says, voice quiet, and then slowly turns himself to the open backseat, his bloody hands pressing to the door frame. He begins to crawl into the backseat carefully, slowly. A few weak noises of pain emerge from between his clenched teeth. With Richard worriedly watching, he drags himself across the seats, unable to make use of his wounded leg. Richard then slams the door shut and hurriedly gets into the driver's side. He starts up the car while digging his phone out. He turns it on and speed dial's Christoph's number while he throws the car in reverse and pulls out of the parking space. Paul moans from the backseat.

The cops are slow today; he has yet to hear any sirens. Richard spins the wheel with his good hand as he turns out of the parking lot, keeping his phone pinned to his cheek with his gloved hand. Christoph picks up after two rings.

“R.”

“C! P has been shot by the fucker we were shakin' down! I-I think he severed his femoral artery! He's bleeding like crazy! _Fuck!”_

Saying it aloud like this has the panic rearing back up. This is really happening, and it's on him that Paul lives. Richard growls angrily and slams his hand against the wheel. His eyes rapidly scan the road with a hyper-alertness. Paul is silent in the backseat. He continues speaking, spitting it out with bared teeth, “Get F ready. F-For possibly a bullet extraction, I don't know. P's gonna need a shitton of blood, too, C.”

“Understood. Where are you bringing him?”

“I don't fucking know! The fucking club! Where else am I gonna take him?!”

“That's fine. Take the back entrance. We don't need the customers seeing you. How's P?”

He barely manages to pay attention to where he's going; he shoots through a red light and then takes a sharp right, in the direction of the strip club. The squealing of the tires is piercing, punctuated by the other drivers laying on their horns. Richard shouts into the phone, snarling, “He's—He's _shot!_ And bleeding everywhere! He's _fucking terrible_ , C!”

Then he glances repeatedly into the rearview mirror, fixing on Paul's limp form laying atop the backseat. He yells in a panic, towards the other man, “Paul? Paul! Talk to me!”

“Calm down, R,” he hears Christoph say, but Paul weakly speaking gains his full attention.

“I'm... I'm fine. Just lightheaded,” Paul mutters, turning slightly on the seat. Richard grimaces. His voice is faint. After nearly rear-ending a car during a sloppy, rushed attempt to pass it, Richard lets out a strained noise of panic and says firmly to Christoph, “I'm hanging up, C. I have to focus on driving. Make sure the door is already open, and F is ready to go. Got it?!”

“Yes.”

Richard tosses his phone onto the passenger seat, sighing heavily. He rests his functionless hand against one of the inner bars of the steering wheel and then throws a glance back towards Paul. Paul is letting out these huffing noises, his face concealed by the passenger seat. Richard flicks his gaze back and forth between the road and Paul, asking shakily, “P, how's it going? You still with me?”

For only a moment that feels like a century, Paul is entirely silent. He then speaks hoarsely.

“Richard... I'm bleeding a lot. I can't—I can't even tell where the blood stops. I'm just laying in my own fucking blood.”

Richard grimaces in concern and jerks his gaze back to the road—there's cars in both lanes, so he swerves around them both, crossing a double solid to overtake them. The jerking motion of the car has Paul moaning. Richard shoots a glance back towards Paul and snaps firmly, saying, “Paul, you're going to be fine, alright? No one's fucking dying from a fucking shot to the leg! You hear me? Repeat it back to me, Paul! You're going to be fucking fine!”

Glancing back to the road, Richard catches the name of the major road they're on; the club is now only two minutes away. That's too long. Richard's stomach twists. He presses his foot down further on the gas. The engine revs in response, working to shoot them faster down the road. He takes a few deep breaths, waiting for Paul's response. When it doesn't come, Richard squeezes his hand around the wheel and yells, “ _Paul_ , wake the fuck up and repeat it back to me!”

“I'm—I'm going to be fine,” Paul weakly states, and then groans. Richard nods shakily and says, “Good! Now say it again!”

“I'm going to be fine,” Paul says, louder this time. His voice wavers only slightly. Richard grins.

“Yeah, you are! Now keep talking to me, you little shit! Just—anything, just keep talking!”

Silence hangs in the car, the only sound being that of the roaring engine as Richard speeds past all the traffic. With the merciful will of Paul's guardian angel, or something like that, all the lights are green along the way, thank God. Richard takes a few quick breaths, attempting to calm himself down. Finally, Paul speaks from the backseat.

“A few nights ago, at Tresor, you were a real fucking asshole, you know that, right? You dragged me out there, knowing I hate night clubs,” he says, voice deepening with building anger, “You almost immediately took out your precious little crack just to get high without considering how I might not want to be around that, and then you pulled _that_ shit? And _then_ , as soon as you realized it wasn't going to happen, you ditched me to go flirt with some trashy women? And now, because you failed to watch my back, I'm probably going to fucking die. So thanks for that, you conceited asshole.”

Richard silently watches the road, his jaw clenched and hand white-knuckled on the wheel. He says nothing at first, his stomach in knots and face hot with anxiety, anger, and humiliation. He lets out a deep breath and then speaks, saying firmly with a knit brow and an uncomfortable scowl, “Paul, I can't—I... You know I can't do this. I can't do this... Talking thing. It's hard for me to walk straight into things I don't want to face. And what I did? That was fucking cowardly. Getting high or drunk makes it easier, alright? But I... I should've tried harder to be honest with you, without the aid of that shit. Look... What I'm trying to say is that I fucked up and... And I'm sorry.”

He feels embarrassed and peeled open, like everything humiliating and disgusting about him is pouring out from his insides. Being honest when sober makes him feel pathetic, simply because it was so hard for him to do so.

“We're here,” he spits, before Paul could say anything. Which, thankfully, is the truth; he turns into the parking lot of the strip club. It's nearly empty, considering it's now 12:05 on a Wednesday. He jerks the car to a stop at the back of the club, jostling Paul unintentionally, which results in a pained curse.

Hurriedly turning off the car and shoving out of the driver's side, Richard then yanks open the backseat door and climbs in half-way. Leaning over Paul, Richard pans his gaze quickly over his form; he's panting weakly, his hands resting limply on his midsection. His eyes are weakly gazing up at him, his face pallid. He wasn't exaggerating—he's lying in a pool of his blood. Richard feels sick.

The feeling of Paul's hot blood filling his sleeves when he slides his arms underneath his back and knees has Richard's throat convulsing in threat of retching. He isn't sensitive when it comes to blood or gore; he's disturbed when it's _Paul's_ blood. Paul's head lolls when Richard carefully lifts him out of the backseat. He balances him in his arms, leaving the car door open as he turns to rush to the back door of the club. He sees Christoph standing there, his cold gaze panning up over their approaching figures. They're both covered in blood and Richard has a haunted expression on his face.

“F is waiting in the office,” Christoph states. Richard says nothing. He strides past him through the ajar door, holding Paul close to himself. Glancing down as he paces hurriedly down the hall, Richard notices that Paul's eyes are closing and reopening, closing and reopening—attempting to focus on something, anything, but failing to do so. His mouth is slightly agape, his hands trembling on his stomach.

The office doors are drawn open, which grants Richard easy entrance with Paul in his arms. Pacing in, he sees Flake standing there, wearing an apron with a surgical mask tucked under his chin, the sleeves to his white button-up rolled up with surgical gloves on his hands. In the center of the room there's an operating table that Flake must have rolled out for the occasion.

“Set him here,” Flake says calmly, indicating to the table with a gesture of his gloved hand. Richard steps up to the table and carefully, gingerly rests Paul down atop it. Sliding his arms out from underneath him has Paul's eyes dazedly rolling open, fixing up on him, and then fluttering shut again.

“And why the fuck do we have an operating table in the strip club?” Richard shakily asks, wiping his blood-soaked hands on his equally bloody slacks. Flake grabs scissors and begins to cut away Paul's suit pants.

“Because sometimes, my colleagues get shot. We can't take him to a hospital, now, can we?” Flake answers flatly. Richard grimaces slightly as he watches Flake remove the pant leg, exposing his red skin and the gunshot wound. Glancing away towards the doors, Richard sees Christoph standing there, on the phone. When Christoph catches his eye, he lifts a hand and curls his forefinger twice, indicating for Richard to come. Glad to gain a distraction, Richard leaves Paul and Flake to approach the other man.

“What happened, exactly? Tell me, and don't leave anything out,” Christoph commands firmly, cloudy and blue eyes boring into Richard's. Richard nods weakly. Sluggishly, he digs his cigarette pack out of the pocket of his slacks and flips it open with shaky fingers. Glancing down, Richard notices there's blood in it—soaking into the thin paper of the cigarettes, ruining the one thing that could possibly relax his nerves at the moment. He silently closes the pack and slides it back into his pocket.

He just wants to fucking smoke.


	5. Ich Will Eure Energie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week before Paul gets shot, a night of clubbing goes wrong, which ultimately leads to Christoph being called. But then again, does anything with Richard ever go right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "I want your energy"
> 
> Warning for alcohol/drug use.

The pulsing lights and pounding music steadily develops a headache underneath Paul's skull. He grimaces as he follows Richard through the crowd, towards the stairs to the upper level. The late hour on a Saturday night resulted in a congestion of people, which makes it difficult to stay on Richard's heels. Paul tries to keep up with the other man, but Richard is making a bee-line straight to the upstairs bar with no consideration for the other man. Paul becomes fed up and reaches out to latch a hand around Richard's wrist to avoid being separated. Richard throws a glance back towards him, his broad grin visible through the flashing lights.

Irritated, Paul frowns in return. Richard doesn't notice. He curls his fingers back against Paul's palm as he guides him to the bar. At the bar, Paul releases his wrist and stands by, adjusting his leather jacket as Richard impatiently waits for the bartender to reach him and tend to his demands. Once his order is ready to be taken, he shouts over the music, “A vodka soda for me and a Dream Boat for my partner here!”

Well, Paul thinks tiredly, at least he knows what he likes—Echte Kroatzbeere with white rum, pineapple juice, and coconut cream. Richard turns to him once the bartender begins working on their drinks. He slaps his hand on Paul's back, only to curl his arm around his shoulders, leaning in to say in a raised voice above the music, “What's wrong, Paul?! We we're successful today! Till is happy, Tägtgren is happy, and no one died! We should be celebrating!”

“You know how I feel about night clubs!” Paul shouts in return with a furrowed brow, searching in the other man's eyes. With his gaze trained on Paul's, Richard nods and pans his sea green eyes to the bar.

“Well, I just wanted to have a fun night with you, alright? Get a couple drinks in you, and you'll be having fun,” Richard calls, flicking his eyes back to Paul. He smiles faintly at him and squeezes his shoulder. Paul nods, forcing a tight smile in return. He would much rather drink with Richard and possibly a couple of their colleagues in the comfort of a familiar location that isn't packed with mindless, drunk people. But, he supposes he could do this for Richard at least this one time. Richard then pats him on the back, before he lets him go to retrieve Paul's drink from the bar. He passes it to said man, saying with a grin, “One Dream Boat.”

Paul smiles at him, taking it from him with a sarcastic tip of his head. Richard turns to the bar to grab his own drink, before he looks back at Paul and calls while gesturing towards the other end of the second floor, “Over here.”

Nodding, Paul then follows him through the swarm of people, towards the row of booths lining the wall. Richard takes the one farthest back, which is somehow not claimed yet. Sliding into one seat, Richard sets his glass down on the table, while Paul takes the other end of the booth.

Curling his fingers around the base of the wide glass, Paul glances down to gaze into the cloudy yellow drink. There's a cherry in it. Grinning, Paul reaches in to pluck it out while Richard exclaims, taking his own drink into grasp, “Welcome to my body, sweet poison!”

Looking at the other man with amusement, Paul snorts as he brings the vibrant red cherry to his mouth. He sucks it in between his lips and lets the pungent saccharine taste envelop his palate. Richard watches him with smiling eyes as he brings his glass to his mouth, taking a long drink. Paul decides to taste his own as well; he lifts the Dream Boat to his lips and takes a sip. It's sweet, followed by a punch from the rum. He hums with satisfaction as he sets his glass down, saying in a raised voice, “Alright, this makes it a little better.”

Laughing, Richard reaches out and squeezes him on the bicep, shouting over the pulsing music, “There you go! Just a couple more of them and you'll be glad to be here.”

“Maybe,” Paul laughs, and then brings his drink to his lips once again.

 

True to Richard's word, Paul finds himself joining his excitement following each drink he consumes; he laughs at every little thing, engages in rapid conversation with the other drunken man who nods along with whatever Paul brings up, and often contemplates getting up to wander the club with Richard. But before he could suggest doing something fun, Richard leans in across the table now decorated with empty glasses, setting a firm hand on Paul's forearm.

Blinking, Paul meets his intense gaze, his own eyes wide with a smile growing across his lips. Richard is already giggling, looking at Paul with a giddiness in his sea green eyes. Paul starts to laugh along with him, despite the fact nothing has been said yet. Richard squeezes his forearm and proclaims loudly amongst his laughter, a grin on his flushed face, “Paul, I got some blow with me! For the occasion!”

“Wh-What?” Paul sputters, laughing, looking at Richard with amused disbelief. “You want to do _coke?_ Here?”

“Yeah!” Richard shouts, now cracking up as well. Paul is becoming hyper-aware of three things: Richard's hand continuing to hold onto his forearm, the way Richard is searching his face with hope in his pretty eyes, and the discomfort slowly forming in his gut. He rubs his pink lips together and furrows his brow.

“Uh, I mean, if you want to, knock yourself out! Are you not having enough fun with just the drinks?” Paul remarks above the noise, head tilted and eyes searching in Richard's. Keeping his hand on Paul's arm, Richard speaks loudly, leaning in closer towards the other man with stars in his eyes, “It's not about having 'enough' fun, it's about having _more_ fun, right?”

“And getting high will be more fun for you,” Paul states, unamused. Richard scoffs and asks in a raised voice, brow arched challengingly, “When was the last time we got fucked up together, Paul? Six months ago?”

“Yeah, but that's because I don't care about getting high,” Paul snaps, jerking his arm out from underneath Richard's hand, “I don't care if you want to indulge in that shit every week, but it's just not for me.”

“So, you won't do it with me now, even though it's been months since you last did it?”

“Why are you so insistent on _me_ doing it? I don't give a shit if you do it!”

“Paul,” Richard remarks with a groan, slapping his hand down on the table with his glassy eyes trained on Paul's frustrated face, “It's not as fun if I'm getting high alone!”

Sitting back against the booth chair, Paul crosses his arms and arches a brow at him. They stare at each other, wordlessly. The fast-paced, deafening music fills in the silence, joined by loud laughter emitting from the people sitting nearby. Richard throws a hand up towards Paul, raising his eyebrows at him.

“Well, what's it gonna be?”

“Do what you want,” Paul remarks sharply, unraveling his arms to reach for his half-empty glass. Through narrowed eyes, he watches Richard sigh and then dig his hand into the inner pocket of his suit coat. He slaps a small resealable bag on the table. Paul eyes it while taking a drink from his fruity alcohol. Glancing around, he scans their surroundings; no one is paying attention to them or even looking in their direction. Not that it matters. Drug use is a common occurrence here.

Richard silently opens it and shakes a meager amount onto the table, partially concealed by the arrangement of empty glasses on their table. He takes out his wallet, removes a card, and uses it to shape the cocaine into a narrow line—all one-handed. Paul watches with a tense jaw and a furrowed brow.

After returning his card and wallet to his pocket, Richard's intense sea green eyes flick up to meet Paul's. Paul says nothing, and makes no change in his expression. Richard searches in his eyes for a moment—whether he's waiting for Paul to do or say something, it doesn't happen. So, without a word, Richard shrugs and leans in, flattening one of his nostrils with a forefinger.

The sharp inhalation Richard makes when he breathes in the blow has Paul grimacing slightly. Richard jerks up into a seated position, and then sags against the booth seat. He runs his hand up through his jet black hair, letting out a breathless laugh with his wide eyes training on Paul.

“Shit!” Richard bellows, which has Paul flinching. Laughing, Richard reaches out to grab his nearly-empty glass of vodka cranberry. He downs the remainder, and then firmly sets the glass back down, jostling the ice within it. Paul reluctantly watches him, unsure what to do or say. Richard wipes at his nose with a thumb and grins broadly at the other man.

“C'mon, Paul, relax!” he shouts, reaching out to grip him by the bicep, before patting him on the flushed cheek, “Where's my happy little Paulchen, huh?”

Paul, in the state he's currently in, doesn't have the proper coherency to remain irritated. A grin breaks across his face both from Richard's drunken touching and his nickname. He shoves away his hand, yelling through a laugh, “You're fucked up, Richard!”

Laughing aloud in response, Richard winks at him and then slides out of the booth. Reaching out, he takes Paul's hand that rests on the table and says giddily with a grin, “Let's go downstairs! I want to scope the game!”

Familiar with this, Paul nods, rolling his eyes, and lets him pull him out of the booth. But he pauses. He squeezes Richard's hand, just as the other man begins to lead him away.

“Wait!” he shouts, earning a glance from the other man. Paul holds up a finger, grinning, and then reaches back out to the table to grab his drink. He brings it to his mouth, and then throws the remainder back. The taste of pineapple bursts on his tongue. Richard bellows out a laugh beside him, squeezing his hand. Paul slams down the glass, probably a little too roughly, and then Richard tugs him into the fray.

 

They navigate hand in hand through the crowd, talking and laughing over the pure _noise_ of the music and overlapping conversations, until Richard became distracted by the dance floor and the flashing strobe lights. He tugs Paul into the mess of dancing bodies, and Paul couldn't help but laugh and go along with it. Soon enough, they're trapped in the sea of people. They're bumped into, elbowed, and occasionally tripping into each other which only has them bursting out with laughter. Considering it's almost one in the morning on a Saturday night, the floor is packed.

Despite his initial distaste with Richard's actions, Paul finds himself having more fun now that the other man has become another person entirely; smiling, laughing, joking. Rather than be a bitter, stone-faced asshole like he tends to be, he's actually being excitable and fucking around with Paul—instead of seeking a conquest like he tends to do in clubs for the opportunity to get laid. Paul likes having Richard's attention on _him_ , rather than on the prospect of hooking up with some woman.

Soon though, the fast-paced pounding of the music and the flashing of the blinding lights invigorates Richard and has him applying rhythm to his dancing by moving his body with the song, rather than joking around with the other man. He's grinning at Paul broadly with those cute, seldom-seen crow's feet appearing at his eyes—and his eyes themselves are dilated.

Strangely to Paul, he feels his stomach flutter at the sight of him smiling as if he has never been happier before. In the back of his mind sits a reminder that it's only the drugs heightening his emotions. Regardless, Paul enjoys seeing him so energetic and _having fun_.

Richard's confident hands, both gloved and naked, suddenly extend and slide underneath Paul's leather jacket. He's grinning widely, continuing to swing his body and bob his head along with the fast tempo of the song while running his exploratory touch up Paul's sides. Paul has to take a second to recover from the sudden touch, his face straightening slightly, before he thinks Richard's just drunk and high—of course he would get touchy.

So, he goes along with it, moving his body along with Richard's, his lips breaking out into a grin again. He feels silly dancing like this, but the inebriated state he's in heightens his confidence. The rush of the dancing people, the music, the consumed alcohol—it's all a whirlwind of distraction, though welcomed distraction.

Running his hands back down Paul's sides, Richard's dilated eyes remain trained entirely on Paul's. Paul just laughs when his hands wander too far and squeeze a firm handful of his ass through his black jeans—at least, the one that _can_ squeeze does.

“Richard!” Paul shouts, laughing, with his hands pressing against Richard's chest, “What the fuck are you doing?! Are you mistaking me for some woman?”

Richard laughs too, and pulls him closer. He strokes his hands up over Paul's back, underneath his leather jacket, and leans in to say in a raised voice, “Let's get the fuck out of here!”

“What?” Paul yells in reply, laughing, his hands clutching at Richard's biceps. Richard, coming to realize conversation isn't an option when they're among this noise, reaches up to grab Paul's wrist. Paul gladly lets him drag him out from among the swarm of people—Paul is careful to avoid stepping on any toes.

Once they're free, Richard wraps his arm around his shoulders, pulling him in to say into his ear with a grin, “I gotta piss. Bathroom?”

Nodding, Paul smiles at him and gives him a thumbs up. Richard briefly tightens his arm around his shoulders and then lets him go. Paul follows him towards the bathrooms.

Once they're within the confines of the bathroom, Paul glances around; there's a four-man group standing in the corner, chatting and laughing loudly, causing only congestion. The majority of the urinals are either occupied, or filthy. But two stalls are open. Richard grimaces, throws a glance towards Paul, and then gestures to the stalls with a tilt of his head. Paul gives him another thumbs up, raising his eyebrows sarcastically with a smile. Richard laughs and then shoves his way into one of the stalls.

The bass of the current song playing is intense and pounding, vibrating in the walls and through Paul's feet. He stands aside, hands in the pockets of his jacket, and stares at his reflection in the mirrors above the sink across from him, on the opposite wall. His short, dark hair is a little disheveled, so he reaches up to smooth it down with both hands. Staring at himself, Paul glances across the rugged burn scar on his boyish face, his smiling lips, his excited gray eyes. He gets away from the moment, his thoughts drifting to the realization that his life has lead up to this point.

At thirty-six, he's standing in an overcrowded bathroom in a night club he doesn't particularly want to be spending his Saturday night in, waiting for his partner to hurry up and piss. Paul's smiling face falters at the thought. This night won't last forever, and then it will become the past. It will become the recent past, then the far past, getting further and further from him as each day passes. It's strange to think about, and a little daunting.

Richard flushing the toilet and then almost immediately bursting out of the stall jerks his attention away from his reflection and to the other man. He's wiping at his nose with his fingers, his eyes wide and darting around before training on Paul. He flashes him a grin and then walks up to the sinks. He turns a faucet on with a squeak and nearly crushes the soap dispenser with the force he uses to pump out some soap. He aggressively scrubs his hands, while admiring himself in the mirror. Paul's stomach twists. Richard curses under his breath when he realizes he forgot to remove his leather glove first.

Once Richard finishes drying his hands and checking his reflection, he approaches Paul and guides him out of the bathroom and back into the bustle of the packed night club. Immediately, Paul grabs his arm and pulls him to the side. Richard happily, blindly follows. Squeezing his arm, Paul looks him in the eye, his expression hard. Richard blinks rapidly, his grin falling when he notices the look on his face. Paul speaks, voice raised.

“Did you just do another fucking line in there, Richard?”

Blinking, Richard looks at him, and then bursts out a laugh, head tipped back. Grinning, he fixes his wide-eyed gaze on Paul again with a grin on his face. He holds up two fingers and says, “Close!”

Frowning, Paul searches in Richard's dilated eyes and then sighs. He takes Richard's hand and begins to pull him away from the bathrooms, back towards the stairs that lead to the second floor. His face flushes when Richard boldly threads their fingers together, earning a surprised glance from Paul. Richard's eyes are downcast, watching his feet as he follows the other man.

Allowing it, Paul just refocuses on where he's going and pulls the other man along. At the stairs, Paul navigates them around an annoying group of people lingering at the bottom of the stairs. They ascend silently—patiently, in Paul's case, considering Richard trips twice on the way up.

Thankfully, there is a free booth, but not in the corner like Richard prefers. Paul guides him to it, and releases his hand once they reach it. Paul drops down into one side of the booth, and is surprised when Richard slides in right next to him. Richard throws an arm around his shoulders. He leans his head against Paul's.

“Paul, you're fucking great, you know that, right?” he shouts above the noise, though louder than necessary considering Paul's ear is _right there._ Paul winces slightly and then laughs, strained. He reaches up to pat Richard on the cheek. In response, Richard turns his head towards his hand and bites at it, which has Paul laughing aloud again.

“You're so weird when you're high. You're like another person entirely,” Paul remarks, looking at Richard's smiling profile with amusement on his own scarred face. Richard meets his gaze and searches in his eyes. Paul notices it when Richard's eyes flick down to stare at his mouth. A shiver runs down Paul's spine. He turns his head away and proclaims with a hand slapping down on the table, “I'm getting too sober! I'm going to get another drink!”

Richard laughs and shouts, patting Paul's chest with his good hand, “Good! Get me a vodka, would you?”

“We'll see,” Paul remarks cheekily as he begins to climb out, slipping between Richard and the table. Richard's broad hand sneaks up to squeeze at his side, which has Paul jerking and jostling the table. Laughing, Richard watches him stumble out from between legs and the table, turning to point at the other man and shout, “You know I'm ticklish there, you asshole!”

After given a sarcastic wink from Richard, Paul waves him off and then begins towards the upstairs bar.

When he returns a few minutes later, now carrying two glasses, Paul sees Richard leaning in over the table, face to the surface. Confused, Paul thinks he's resting at first—maybe dizzy from the combination of alcohol and drugs in his body—but then Richard recoils back against the seat with a dazed, wide-eyed look on his face. He wipes at his face with a hand as Paul rejoins him and slams his vodka in front of him. Some of it splashes out to land on Richard's lap.

“Woah, easy there, buddy!” Richard shouts, laughing.

“I could say the same,” Paul remarks, sliding into the opposite booth with a knit brow and a frown. Richard seems more upset by the fact that Paul isn't sitting with him again, rather than his comment. He sulks a little as he curls the fingers of his functional hand around the glass of vodka to bring it up to his pouting lips. His alert, dilated eyes train on Paul as he sucks down two mouthfuls of the drink. Paul silently does the same, but at a slower pace.

Watching Richard now, Paul notices he's fidgeting and shifting often. He keeps running his fingers through his gelled hair, rubbing at his face, shifting in his seat, tapping his fingers against the surface of the table. Paul silently, warily watches him. A lopsided grin spreads across Richard's face, directed at the other man. Then he suddenly gets up. Paul watches him, wide-eyed, as Richard rounds the table and flops down beside him, saying loudly with a laugh, “You're too far away, Paulchen! Give me some company!”

Vaguely uncomfortable, Paul says nothing. He smiles faintly at Richard. Watching his eyes, he notices how he's rapidly glancing over his face, and then down over his body. Paul looks away and brings his drink to his lips. He takes a deeper drink of his tequila cocktail—he needs to be drunker than he is for this shit.

Unexpectedly, Richard wraps his arm around his shoulders again. Paul flicks his gaze over to eye him, watching him take a long drink of his vodka before setting it back down on the table. Richard leans in and rests his chin on Paul's shoulder, saying lowly into his ear, “You look real good in that jacket, Paul, you know? I didn't even bother changing out of this fucking suit before taking you here. But you look hot. I'm sure you could get your way into anyone's pants here.”

Paul flushes in the face, both from flattered embarrassment and discomfort. Somehow, he's feeling both of those right now. He squeezes his hand around his glass, tense under Richard's arm. He gives Richard a faint smile. Laughing, Richard searches his face and states in a raised voice above the pounding beat of the music, “Preferably, mine!”

“What?” Paul sputters, wide-eyed. Richard snorts and shakes his head roughly, saying with his grin faltering on his face, “Nevermind.”

He grabs his vodka and then throws the rest of it down with a toss of his head. Some of it runs down his chin due to his carelessness. Paul grimaces slightly. The other man is progressively becoming more of a mess. It's concerning and equally unattractive. Richard slams the glass back down and then wipes off his chin with his stiff, gloved hand. Silently, Paul drinks from his tequila while he watches Richard reach into his suit coat. Looking at his face, Paul can tell he's slightly frustrated based on his furrowed brow and tight-lipped frown. Paul isn't sure why.

When he produces that dreaded small, resealable bag and opens it to shake some of the white powder onto the table, Paul scowls. Contemplating what to say or do in regards to Richard doing _more fucking cocaine_ , Paul takes too long to act, partially because intoxication slows down his thought process. Leaning in, Richard sharply inhales the drug with a thumb pressed to his nostril.

“Jesus, Richard!” Paul growls, smacking him on the bicep and earning a wide-eyed look while the other man wiped at his nose. Setting his glass down, Paul looks at him with angered disbelief as he shouts, “Slow the fuck down! Are you not high enough?”

“What?” Richard yells above the noise, eyes wide and eyebrows raised as he laughs. Paul shakes his head and watches him uneasily. Richard waves his hand, stating loudly with his dilated eyes searching Paul's, “It's fine! You wouldn't believe my tolerance when it comes to this shit!”

“I don't want to fucking test that!” Paul remarks sharply, looking at the other man with disgust. Richard grins and reaches out to rest his arm along Paul's back, leaning in to say with his green eyes trained on his reluctant expression, “You care about me, Paulchen? Think I'm going overboard?”

“I do care about you, Richard, because we're fucking partners! Don't make me slap some sense into you, you ass!” Paul begins to say firmly, though it trails off into an ill-timed laugh that he can't help, his face hot and stomach twisting. Richard's grin softens to a smirk. He continues looking into Paul's eyes, until his gaze flicks down to stare at his mouth again. Discomfort and simmering irritation curls in Paul's chest. A broad hand sliding over his thigh and squeezing it through his jeans has Paul jerking and looking at the other man with shock.

Unexpectedly, Richard leans in and presses his lips against Paul's earlobe and silver earring. Speaking lowly in a slur, with heat in his voice, he says, “P, I want to bring you to the fucking brink. I can't stop thinking about sucking you off in the car, you know? Right fucking now.”

Recoiling back, Paul looks at him with disbelief and repulsion. Despite that, Richard brings his hand in-between his thighs to touch him, eyes lustful and trained on the other man. Paul grimaces in disgust and then roughly slaps his hand away. He shoves past him, climbing over him to escape the booth. Richard shouts his name, reaching out to clutch at his wrist, ultimately stopping him. Paul whirls around and yanks his hand out of his grasp, scowling at him darkly. Richard looks lost, confused.

“What's your fucking problem?!” Paul yells, his built up agitation and impatience exploding from him. Richard watches him, jaw set. His dilated eyes are wide, trained on Paul's scowling face as the other man growls dangerously, “Why do you always do this? Why do you get so fucking high, to a point you can't control yourself?! And don't treat me like one of those whores who's only there for your insatiable desire to fuck! Grow the fuck up!”

Somehow, Richard manages to look both hurt and enraged at the same time. But his drunkenness and lack of complete coherency has him faltering in producing a fury-fueled response. He just looks at Paul, his expression now stony, with his hand in a fist. So instead, Paul fills in the cold silence by running a hand down over his face and stating loudly over the music, “I'm going to the bathroom. I need to cool down.”

Then he turns and strides away, leaving behind a speechless Richard.

 

At the bathroom sink, Paul splashes water on his face. He leans heavily against the sink, hands planted firmly on the counter. In this moment, the bathroom is almost empty save for the attendant and a couple men pissing at the urinals. Paul has some peace to rub his hands over his face while he contemplates what to do once he returns to Richard. Or... He could just leave. He doesn't have to put up with this bullshit, nor does he want to.

But he's not an asshole. And, really, that would risk Richard's health simply because he can't repress his impulses and would just keep snorting coke until he had a fucking heart attack. So, reluctantly, Paul dries off his face with a sigh and then leaves the bathroom.

Once on the second floor again, Paul fixes his gaze on their booth as he begins towards it. But then he pauses. Richard isn't seated there. He frowns, annoyed. Of course he wandered off. Glancing around, Paul scans his surroundings for the other man. When he spots him at the bar, Paul freezes.

Standing between two women wearing tight, short dresses and heels, Richard has his arms around their waists, the cocky asshole, and is chatting to them with a grin on his face. They're laughing with him.

Fury swells in Paul like an ignited fire. Hands in fists, he watches Richard talk the girls up, while his inner mind scrambles for an extinguisher to put out the roaring fire inside of him. And it succeeds in doing so; instead of striding up and yelling some sense into him, Paul just turns and stomps his way down the stairs, and towards the exit of the bustling club.

 

Ten minutes later, in a cab on the way back to his apartment, Paul sits silently in the backseat. He stares out the window with his elbow set on the door, fingers curled over his scowling lips. Watching the vibrant neon lights of the shops and bars they pass by, Paul silently stews in his infuriated thoughts, until he comes to realize what this means.

He left Richard unsupervised, high off his mind and with more drugs on hand.

Sighing heavily, Paul rubs hard at his eyes, until he sees stars. Sometimes, he cares far too much when he's given very little in return.

Reluctantly, Paul withdraws his Nokia from his coat and dials Till's number.


	6. Jeden Herzschlag Kontrollieren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flake manages to save Paul's life. Paul will have a long road of recovery. Richard has no intention to deviate from Paul's side during this recovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "Every heartbeat to control"

Grimly watching from the leather sectional, Richard leans forward with his forearms perched on his knees. He had removed his bloody suit coat, leaving him only in his white button-up and tie. Beside him, Christoph is silent. Their gazes are trained on the sight of Flake leaning in over Paul's limp form. The gruesome sight is sickening. Flake, in a rushed yet controlled pace, had increased the size of the wound with a scalpel and used a retractor tool to pin it open, which granted him access to the femoral artery. He had clamped both ends of the artery to stifle the blood flow. He works silently, concentrating as he reconnects the artery. Richard watches with a grimace. There's a lot he's doing that he isn't familiar with—is he inserting a _tube?_

A slight nudge to his bicep earns a wary glance towards Christoph. He notices he's holding out a sealed pack of cigarettes, an unreadable expression on his face. Richard arches a brow. Reaching out, he quietly takes it from him, saying lowly with doubtful eyes training on Christoph's, “I thought you didn't smoke.”

Christoph nods and fixes his gaze back on Flake's hunched form as the doctor works.

“I don't. T does.”

Arching a brow, Richard searches his face. A sly smile pulls weakly at Richard's lips when the implications become clear. He tears off the sealing plastic with his teeth and then flips it open with his thumb to reveal the crisp cigarettes. Holding the pack with his ring and pinky fingers, he uses his thumb and forefinger to pull one out.

Slipping it between his lips, Richard sets aside the pack. He lifts his hips slightly to reach into his pocket for a lighter, but Christoph lifting a stainless steel zippo lighter has him pausing. Eying the other man, Richard watches his stony face as the other man flips it open and then brings the flame to life with a strike of his thumb. Christoph's cold eyes fix on his. He lifts the flame to the tip of the cigarette. Richard sucks at it a few times and then exhales the smoke from his nostrils. Christoph snaps the zippo shut and returns it to his coat pocket.

“Thanks,” Richard says. Christoph nods.

Glancing back towards Flake and the operating table, Richard watches him stitch up Paul's leg. The way he works is graceful, really. His slender fingers are nimble, practiced in feeding the curled needle through his flesh. It only takes a moment before the gaping incision is sealed. Flake sets aside the bloody needle. He strips off his tainted gloves and tosses them into the trash bin beside him, before pulling on another clean pair.

Grabbing the bowl that held saline, Flake dips a gauze pad into the liquid with a forceps and then after squeezing the excess saline out, he carefully presses it to the stitched wound. Following the damp gauze pad is a large dressing pad, which is sealed over it and the wound, keeping it in place. Then it's wrapped firmly with rolled gauze. Meanwhile, the bag of dark blood hanging from an IV pole beside the operating table refills what Paul had lost.

“R, I know you will be spending most of your time with him, after this,” Flake speaks up firmly as he strips off his gloves, jolting the other man out of his staring. He throws the gloves into the trash and then tucks his mask under his chin again. He trains his cold gaze on Richard. Richard plucks the cigarette from his lips and blows a steady, narrow stream of smoke out from his mouth. He arches a brow at the doctor.

“Don't let him do anything stupid,” Flake says, adjusting his black-framed glasses, “He should rest in bed for at least a week, two to be safe. Following that period, he may navigate around in a wheelchair. I've managed to put him in a stable condition—now all he needs is rest and many hours of physical therapy.”

Sighing, Richard rubs his hand over his face and then brings his cigarette to his lips, saying lowly with exhausted eyes, “You got it. Thanks, F.”

“It's my job,” Flake remarks blankly, and then strips his surgical mask from his face to add it to the trash bin. Richard nods and keeps his gaze trained on his blood-speckled dress shoes, blowing a shaky line of smoke from his trembling lips. Beside him, Christoph is silent.

A hand resting on Richard's shoulder earns his tired gaze. Christoph nods towards him, cloudy and blue eyes searching in Richard's, and then stands from the sectional. He fixes his suit coat as he paces towards Flake. When he reaches him, Christoph leans in and asks him something unheard by Richard in a hushed tone, earning a glance from Flake's vibrant blue eyes. Richard silently watches them speak as he nurses at his cigarette, his thoughts drifting to concerned places: How long will it take for Paul to recover? Will he be able to walk easily again, after this? Is there still a chance that he could die? Maybe from a blood clot? What if the surgery fails, and his artery collapses or separates again? Is there a chance of that happening? Richard isn't sure about any aspect of this. It's frightening, having this lack of certainty, or control.

“I can't answer that right now,” Flake remarks sharply, suddenly, jerking Richard out of his intense thinking. Glancing up, he sees a frustrated expression on Flake's face. The lanky man gestures with a jerk of his hands, snapping impatiently, “I can't see the future! How am I to know if he'll be walking again? I don't specialize in physical therapy. And it's too soon to tell. So maybe ask me again in a couple months, C, because at the moment, I can't give you your precious answers to pass onto T. Now if you'll give me some _space_ , I have to hook P up to a vitals machine. If you want to be useful, call T. Have him get a physician down here. I'm a surgeon, I can't cover all of these necessities that P needs. We also need to move P to a more stable location. He won't be recovering in the office of a _strip club._ ”

Christoph nods and then turns away, striding away with a scowl on his face as he withdraws his phone again. Flake scoffs, irritably throwing up a hand again, and then disappears through the back door—surely to retrieve the machine he spoke of. Richard, despite the grim circumstances, can't help but smirk a little, hidden behind his hand as he brings his cigarette to his lips. Admittedly, it's a little fun witnessing Flake yell orders at Christoph.

 

* * *

 

 Three hours later, Richard stands in Paul's apartment kitchen wearing a casual shirt with long, striped sleeves and jeans—a change from his ruined, bloody suit. He fills a glass with water and then exits the kitchen, making his way back to Paul's bedroom.

Laying in his bed with the covers drawn over him, Paul remains unconscious with the vitals machine standing to the right of the bed, displaying multiple charts. An IV containing intravenous fluids is connected to Paul, rebalancing his electrolytes and preventing dehydration. The physician Till had called in just left, but claimed that she will return in an hour or so to check on him again.

It's a little nerve-racking that the responsibility to watch over him has been passed onto Richard's shoulders, but it's a responsibility he's willing to have.

He takes a seat on the chair previously pulled up to his bedside. He then takes a long drink from the glass of water; he has to mind his own level of dehydration as well, after all. The insane stress of today had drained him plenty. Setting aside the water on Paul's side table, Richard fixes his gaze on the other man.

In his sleep derived from the anesthesia Flake administered him, Paul's face is slack. His short, dark hair is disheveled, his mouth straight and eyelashes resting against his upper cheeks. His hands are laying atop his stomach, one finger pinched with the pulse oximeter.

If not for the circumstance or the ugly burn scar covering a quarter of his face, Paul would look almost serene. It's not often Richard has the chance to witness him sleeping. It takes the lines, the roughness out of his face. Smiling faintly, Richard gazes at his face. He, too, watches the way his chest lifts and falls with each breath.

Eventually, after twenty minutes of sitting there deep in thought, Richard gets bored and stands to wander Paul's bedroom purely out of curiosity. In the past, when he's been here, he hasn't really _investigated_ Paul's interests, nor his possessions. Not that he _should_ or _has to_ , but he is curious to learn more about the other man beyond what he's been told or gathered purely from observation.

Approaching his small bookshelf with his arms comfortably crossed, Richard studies the titles. It seems like the majority of the content in Paul's bookshelf are biographies, or historical books with the general subject being war. Richard doesn't really care about reading in general, though he is intrigued by Paul's interest in war history. Peering into the lower shelf, Richard realizes this one is dedicated to more personal belongings. Photo books, journals, and a full box of what seems to be pictures, which he determines after opening it. Is Paul into photography?

He really shouldn't look.

Regardless, he reaches in and grabs a portion from the stack of pictures.

The first photo is of a sunset over a sea. The next is of a unsophisticated, homey bookstore, with an overhead sign written in French. The following pictures all seem to be from a trip to a region where French is the major language, considering the street signs and store names are all in French. Interesting, but not terribly. Following those are pictures of snow, and surroundings blanketed in snow. A photo of the Kremlin is pretty self-explanatory.

Then he's looking at [a Polaroid picture](https://78.media.tumblr.com/0869a0875ab1d8b334b145f399685f16/tumblr_oyqnalM5wO1rvajymo1_500.jpg), faded slightly due to the passage of time, of Paul and a woman. The woman's face is turned from the camera, her legs crossed with a cigarette between her fingers. She's wearing a pink floral skirt and a black top. Paul looks remarkably young in this one. He has blonde hair, a startling fact to Richard, which is tied back into a ponytail. His legs are crossed too, ankle perched on his knee, with his hands in his lap. He's wearing a blue (gray?) long-sleeved shirt underneath a black vest, with matching black pants and boots. The broad smile on his face in this picture has Richard grinning himself. He was awfully cute when he was younger. He's curious who the woman is. Flipping the Polaroid picture, he reads “ _1984, Heiko und Nikki_ ” scrawled on the back in elegant handwriting.

“Nnn... Fuck...”

The slurred curse from behind him has Richard pausing and then throwing a glance over his shoulder. Paul is shifting in bed, his face in a slight grimace. Richard hurriedly shoves the pictures back into the box, in the order he found them in, and then returns it to the shelf. Standing, Richard runs a hand through his black hair and then paces up to Paul's bedside, crossing his arms. Paul's eyes are shifting under his eyelids, his lips curled into a frown. His hands shift on his stomach. Eventually, his eyelids weakly flutter open.

Taking a seat on the chair again, Richard watches him as he pans his heavy gaze over the ceiling. Then his eyes lower to look at himself, before flicking over to settle on Richard. He's blinking slowly. The scowl on his face lessens a bit.

“Richard,” Paul says sluggishly, and then clears his throat. Richard smiles at him.

“Hey. You're not dead.”

“I'm not,” Paul agrees tiredly, and then lifts a heavy hand—or at least, attempts to. It flops back down uselessly against his hip.

“Still a little weak from the drugs, huh?” Richard asks, smirking. Paul nods slowly, his eyes closing, opening, closing, opening at an incredibly delayed pace. Richard's crow's feet appear when his smile extends. He has to repress laughter. Paul furrows his brow and looks around a little. He speaks slowly, voice slurred.

“Am I... In my bed?”

“Yeah,” Richard answers with a poorly concealed laugh, his gaze remaining trained on Paul's disoriented face, “Unfortunately, the strip club doesn't allow access to patients right out of surgery. The bouncers are tough.”

“Shit,” Paul curses again, sinking back into his pillows with his eyes sliding shut. Richard watches his hand as he carefully, lethargically lifts it to his face. He rubs heavily at his eyes, heaving a sigh.

“Have you been waiting here?” he asks quietly, dropping his hand limply atop the bed again, his drowsy gray eyes training on Richard. Richard smiles faintly at him. He nods, reaching a hand back to nervously run his fingers through his dark hair. Then he leans forward, resting his forearms against his knees with his hands threading together between them.

“Yeah. You've been out for... Five hours now? Including the surgery. It was kinda rough witnessing the surgery, admittedly, but I stuck around.”

A weak, warm smile appears on Paul's face, his gray eyes becoming lidded and kind. Richard stares, silently admiring that gentle expression on his face with his own smile lingering on his lips. Paul reaches out a heavy hand, earning Richard's surprised gaze, and flops it down atop Richard's linked hands. He weakly strokes his thumb over the flesh of his bare hand, while curling his fingers against the sleek leather of his gloved hand. Richard stares with a heat bursting in his face. Paul clearing his throat has him looking up at his smiling face again. Grinning, Paul says in a quiet voice, “For once, _I_ can throw it in _your_ face that _you_ care about _me_.”

Richard pauses, and then laughs.

“Damn, you're right. You got me.”

 

Paul drifts off to sleep after half an hour of conversation, still quite exhausted from a combination of the drugs, the surgery, and the mental strain he had dealt with. Being as out of it as Paul is, Richard takes advantage of that by lifting his limp hand and pressing a quick, reluctant kiss to his curled fingers. After that, Richard leaves the room to give both Paul and himself some space—he has some things to sort out in his head.

In the living room, Richard comes to a halt when his gaze lands on Till, who's leaning casually against the wall by the kitchen. Cane in one hand, he has a cigarette in the other, lifted to his full lips between his wide fingers. A stoic expression is on his face, his calm eyes unreadable and trained on Richard. Richard sighs and runs a hand up through his unkempt black hair, stepping up to the other man.

“Was he awake?” Till asks lowly, turning his head to exhale the smoke away from Richard's face. Richard nods, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Just fell back asleep.”

“Did he seem alright?”

Richard shrugs.

“He's fine, for now. I'm sure when he's more coherent he'll be whining like a bitch.”

“Surely.”

Smirking faintly, Richard drops his gaze to their feet. His smirk fades away, replaced by a pensive frown and a knit brow. Till is silent in front of him, continuing to smoke his cigarette. When he speaks, it's a long moment later, his deep voice softened, just slightly.

“Are _you_ alright?” he asks.

Flicking his gaze up to meet Till's again, Richard searches in his eyes. Till looks at him with a silent, patient encouragement, an encouragement for the other man to confide in him. Lifting a hand, Richard rubs his palm over his stubbly jaw, scratching lightly at his cheek as he shrugs.

“Not really. But it's not about me. I'll live.”

“Talk to me.”

Till is looking at him with a schooled expression, though his eyes are insistent, bold. Richard swallows hard. He isn't one to rely on other people when it comes to how he _feels_. But Till is a man who's trustworthy, a man who shelves away the truths when they need to be hidden. He's loyal and understanding. Sighing, Richard rolls his gaze away from his superior, to settle on the scenery past the living room window. He shrugs again, crossing his arms.

“It was so... Disturbing. Terrifying,” he mumbles, brow furrowing tightly, “I thought Paul—I mean, _P_ —was going to die. And that's still on my mind. Maybe if I had been a little more alert, he would be fine. I would've noticed what was going on. But it was just another collection, so I took it lightly.”

He lifts a hand to rub at his brow, and then runs it down over his face. Till silently watches him, his face unreadable. The smoke winding up from the lit end of his cigarette hangs between them. Richard drops his hand from his face and looks at Till tiredly. Smiling bitterly, Richard goes on to say, “It's not just that. The only other person I care about as much as I care about P is my ex-wife. So. _That's_ another entire aspect to deal with.”

“You have feelings,” Till assumes flatly, arching a brow. Richard grimaces slightly, an embarrassed burst of heat blooming in his cheeks.

“Yeah, but I don't think they're... _Romantic_. Just... A stronger bond than I'm used to, in this line of work.”

“He's your brother, your partner,” Till says, straightening from the wall and turning into the kitchen. Pacing up to the sink with clicks of his brace and taps of his cane, Till reaches in to put the cigarette out on a residual droplet of water as he goes on, “A bond is inevitable.”

“The brothers I've had in the past never evoked a bond from me,” Richard remarks, watching him toss the spent cigarette into the garbage. Till turns to face him, the faintest smile on his full lips, his intense green eyes vaguely amused. He steps back up to Richard, standing before him—towering over him, really, based purely on his aura—with his hands folding over the intricately carved handle of his cane. He searches in Richard's eyes as he speaks lowly, saying, “Well, it just took finding the right man. You fit well with us, with P. P was looking for a man like you, too, you do realize. As I said before, he's not quick to trust. Men seldom earn that from him.”

Richard presses his lips together. Crossing his arms, he asks bluntly, “Why am I so damn special, then? There are many men better than myself.”

The faint smile on Till's face extends into a slight smirk. He nods, sweeping his gaze up from Richard's feet to his tense face.

“I see you've become humble,” Till remarks, tilting his head, “It's a nice development.”

A pause follows, and then Richard scoffs and rolls his eyes, though a smile is pulling at the corners of his mouth. Till reaching up and squeezing his shoulder with a broad hand has Richard stilling, gazing at his superior's rugged face. Leaning in, Till says quietly with his vibrant green eyes trained on Richard's, “Well, why _are_ you so special, R? I suppose only P would know, wouldn't he?”

Blinking, Richard looks at him with a slightly furrowed brow, astonished. Till pats him on the shoulder and then steps past him, towards Paul's bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will have more action. We get to learn more about Christoph, our meanest boy!


	7. Versteht Ihr Mich?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christoph faces his first real challenge, since he joined Till's command only a couple months ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "Do you understand me?"
> 
> Warning for murder, gore, and all that good stuff.

“T, there's another _problem_ down at the gambling hall on Sophie-Charlotten-Straße. Four men, causing a bunch of shit. And I want you to take care of it, immediately. Try not to scare off the customers, y'know? Call me when it's handled.”

“Understood, Tägtgren. I'll send a man down,” Till replies, subconsciously fiddling with the pen in his hand while flicking his gaze up to settle on his brothers who stand around the billiards table—Flake is leaning in over the table to make a strike. Paul is saying something to the unresponsive Christoph with a grin on his face, while spinning his pool cue around in his hands.

“Good,” Tägtgren says, and then heaves a sigh. Till patiently waits for him to go on, or end the call. He wordlessly watches Paul imitate shoving the pool cue up Flake's ass, with Flake oblivious of him doing so—Christoph stares at him with a blank expression, unamused. Paul grins, and then goes on to put the pool cue between his own thighs, before jerking it off with an exaggerated expression of pleasure on his face. Flake, having already made his move, turns to witness this. He smacks Paul on the head with his pool cue.

“You know what, T, don't call me,” Tägtgren says, his voice noticeably exhausted, “Come over and share a drink with me. We'll talk about it then. You seem to be the only person lately who doesn't drive me fucking crazy. You got a cool head on your shoulders, y'know?”

“...Thank you, sir. I'll be sure to stop by then, once it's taken care of,” Till says lowly, relaxing back into his desk chair with a creak. It earns a glance from Christoph, who watches him for a lengthy moment, face hard, before Paul nudging him redirects his attention. The next time Tägtgren speaks, Till can hear the smile in his voice.

“Alright. I'll speak with you later, T.”

“You will.”

Till waits for the line to cut before reaching out and setting the phone back on its hook.

Standing with a deep exhale, Till runs his hands down over his suit coat, smoothing the fabric, and then grabs his cane. Glancing up towards the others, he sees Paul reaching up to ruffle his hand over Christoph's [short, dark hair](https://78.media.tumblr.com/02839f765dd619c80b4641279970f60e/tumblr_oyugkqtdXu1rvajymo1_400.jpg), which earns him an irritated nudge away from the quiet man.

“C!” he calls, voice loud and commanding above Paul's yammering and Flake's irritated protests. Silence immediately replaces the noise of the billiards game, his subordinates' gazes jerking over to fix on him. Christoph immediately hangs up his pool cue and then strides past the others towards Till. A pout blooms on Paul's face. Christoph stands before him, clutching one wrist behind his back with his face stoic.

“Yes, sir?”

Till's lips twitch with a faint smile. Stepping up closer to the taller man, Till looks intently into his icy blue eyes and says lowly, “What did I say, C?”

Blinking, Christoph pauses, searching in the other man's eyes, and then his expression softens to faint horror—purely at himself. Ducking his head, Christoph says quietly, “Forgive me, T. You are my leader. You deserve the respect of that title.”

“While I am your leader, I am also your brother,” Till remarks, leaning back from the other as he taps his cane gently against Christoph's foot, saying, “'Sir' is unnecessary between us, understand? Now, I need you to do something for me.”

Flicking his gaze up to look at him, Christoph searches his face. He nods.

“Of course. Anything.”

“There's a group of Hellner's men at Vulkan on Sophie-Charlotten-Straße,” Till says, setting a hand on Christoph's shoulder and turning him towards the door. Walking him to it with clicks of his brace and cane, Till murmurs to him, saying, “I want you to go down there and take _care_ of it. Avoid violence. We don't want to stoke the fire any more. Just get them out of there.”

At the door, Till brings him to a stop with a firm squeeze to his shoulder. Nodding, Christoph fixes his gaze on Till's and says firmly with a stern expression on his boyish face, “It will be done, T.”

“Good,” Till murmurs, searching in his trusting blue eyes as he goes on to say, “Call me when it's settled.”

After given a nod from the other man, Till pats him on the back with finality and then turns away, back towards his desk. As Christoph opens the door and strides out, Till fixes his gaze on the other two. Paul is taking his turn, while Flake watches Till with an arched brow, hands clutched around his pool cue. Till gives him a brief, acknowledging nod and then returns to his seat at his desk.

Picking up where he had left off on these reports before accepting Tägtgren's call, Till blocks out Paul's talkative voice and the clattering of the billiard balls to focus.

 

* * *

 

The drive to the gambling hall is dark and silent. Christoph stews in his thoughts, hands gripping tightly at the wheel. The yellow glow of the streetlights overhead sweep over his body as he drives past them, his face stony. He contemplates the various scenarios that could play out: if they were to engage in violence, would he defend himself or avoid the situation entirely? What if they refuse to leave? Would Christoph have enough reason to respond with violence?

He'll have to figure it out. He has to make his own decisions when it comes to handling Till's orders. That's part of being his soldier.

 

Once he reaches the lot, Christoph parks in the corner of the parking lot, where no other car is. He turns off the car, unbuckles his seat belt, and shoves his way out of the vehicle. Christoph then opens up the backseat and ducks in to grab his duffle bag. He unzips it and reaches in to withdraw his Beretta pistol, which he tucks into his underarm holster. Then his Glock 19, a smaller pistol, goes under his belt, hidden by his suit coat. He always has his butterfly knife on him, though he adds a folding combat knife to his belt just in case.

Preparedness is essential to Christoph's routine. He zips up his duffel bag, tucks it under the backseat, and then shuts the door. After locking the car, Christoph turns to the building and approaches the front door. The blaring neon lights of the Vulkan nearly blind him as he pulls open the door and steps in.

The residual smell of cigarette smoke and old hardwood greets his senses, joined by the dim lighting of the establishment and the flashing gambling machines. People are standing about, talking lowly with concerned expressions on their faces—noticeably _not_ gambling.

Christoph hears the commotion as soon as he steps in.

“I don't give a shit what you have to say! I know you're just here to cause trouble!” he hears a man yell, “Now get the fuck out!”

Striding towards the noise, hands ready at his sides, Christoph turns into the bar to see the manager, the owner of the establishment (who works for their family), and a few customers strewn about in the bar, witnessing this unfold. There are four malicious men standing in a semi-ring around the owner. They look like low-ranking scum, with pitiful attempts to present themselves intimidatingly, through their clothing, their tattoos, and their stances.

“Oh, yeah?” one of them says challengingly, stepping up closer to the owner with a scowl on his pierced face, “What do you mean you don't give a shit about what we have to say? That's hurtful to say to your _customers_ , you know. I don't think we appreciate that. Say, I think I'd like to file a _complaint_. Are you willing to accept it?”

When he reaches out to grab a fistful of the owner's shirt, the owner isn't fazed in the least. He simply watches the lowly gangster with a hard expression on his face, unresponsive to his attempt to aggravate. Before it could escalate further, Christoph steps forward and says in a raised voice, earning a glance from the nuisance, “I think it's time for you four to leave.”

A smirk appears on the other man's face. He releases the fistful he has on the owner's shirt, brushes his hand off on himself, and then extends it towards Christoph.

“Why, hello. How nice of you to join us...?”

Christoph stares at his offered hand, and then fixes his stony gaze on the gangster's smirking face again. He's dealt with assholes like this guy before. Sarcastic and flippantly humorous with underlying malevolence, waiting for the chance to strike when guards are lowered. Christoph simply looks at him, his eyes hard and lips in a frown.

“Enough with this game,” Christoph says, tilting his head towards the exit of the bar, “You need to leave. I won't ask again.”

Withdrawing his extended hand, the other man sizes Christoph up with a sweep of his unamused eyes and then curls his lip. He steps closer to him with intention to rile him up, face to face now, but Christoph is quite taller, so it's more laughable than anything. Christoph is not one to be intimidated, regardless. He jabs a finger into Christoph's chest, over his black tie, and snarls, “You weren't _asking_ , you little _bitch_. Maybe _ask_ me, and we'll consider it.”

Narrowing his eyes at the other man, Christoph says nothing for a lengthy moment. The other inhabitants of the bar watch silently. Christoph glances across them with flicks of his gaze—mostly men, but there are a couple women, witnessing this with tension in their faces. He's surprised they haven't left by now. He settles his cold gaze back on the gangster and says lowly, “May you leave this man's property, before authorities are called? I'd like to avoid that outcome.”

Laughing sharply, the other man pans his gaze over to his colleagues and says in a raised voice, “Well, men! I think he wants us to leave. So, we shall leave, won't we?”

He fixes his gaze back on Christoph and looks him up and down again as he says in a growl, digging his finger deeper into Christoph's sternum, “Now, you can report back to your nice boss that you were a good boy who scared away the bad men. Let him know that you were a real fuckin' hero. I'd like it if you did. It might help you move up the ranks, huh? But don't get too comfortable. The ground under your feet isn't safe anymore.”

Christoph stares at him wordlessly, with no change in his schooled expression. The man smirks at him, and then flicks his tie with a sweep of his hand. He shoves past him, the three other men following. Christoph reaches up to silently fix his tie, training his gaze on the owner, who's running a hand through his hair with a sigh. Stepping up to him, Christoph meets his eyes and says lowly, “Close up for tonight. If they come back, call.”

Nodding, the owner gives him a faint smile.

“Thanks, kid.”

Nodding, Christoph glances towards the customers who seem to relax a bit—they begin to quietly chat over their drinks, though he notices some uneasy gazes are trained on him. Christoph then turns away and exits the bar. He'll have to make sure they aren't vandalizing his car.

Which they aren't, he notices, when he peeks outside briefly. Stepping back into the building, Christoph withdraws his phone and dials in Till's office number. Pressing it to his ear, Christoph peers out the window, scanning for any sign of those men. Then Till picks up with a firm, “Hello.”

“T. They left.”

“Alright. Good job. Come back to the office now, C.”

“Yes, si—T.”

“Be careful.”

A smile sits behind Christoph's thin lips, though it doesn't show itself.

“I will. Bye, T.”

He lowers his phone from his ear and hits the end call button. Staring at it for a moment, Christoph replays Till's deep voice in his mind, those few words that were very brief but reassured him all the same. Not that he needs reassurance. Christoph isn't afraid. He's done jobs like this before... Twice.

Returning his phone to his pocket, Christoph then pushes out of the building again, briefly scanning the parking lot before he begins towards his car. At the car, he quickly unlocks it and then gets in. Once the doors are locked and he clicks his seat belt into place, Christoph brings the car to life and draws out of the parking space.

Turning left out of the lot, Christoph lets out a deep breath. He presses further down on the pedal to pick up speed, the engine revving slightly. Noticing his headlights aren't on despite the late hour, Christoph glances down and reaches out to flick them on. Fixing his gaze on the road again has his stomach twisting into a knot: one of those men are standing in the road, aiming a gun at him and his car. Somehow, it all goes so wrong, so fast.

He spins the wheel as he ducks his head, just as the piercing sound of gunfire bursts through the cold silence of the night, followed by the cracking of glass and the muted sound of the bullets embedding themselves in the upholstery of his car. Christoph grits his teeth and contemplates risking getting shot to see where he's _fucking driving_ , but the speed of which the car was going combined with his swerving has the car crashing into the fence that runs along the road before he could regain control. The ear-splitting grind of steel against brick joins the noise of gunfire, which has Christoph grimacing and growling aloud in a mixture of pain, fury, and panic. He lifts his head to attempt to redirect the car, but then he's driving up a gradual incline that becomes a tall road divider.

The car begins to tip at an extreme angle, until the tires lose their grip and sends the car rolling.

Christoph hears only three things: the screeching of metal and steel against asphalt, the shattering of glass, and the screaming of his mind. With his upper half lurching from the force, he nearly smashes his head against the steering wheel, but the speed of which the car rolls throws him back against the seat. Christoph manages to mindlessly press his hands to the roof of the car as an attempt to stabilize himself as the car spirals. It comes to a skidding stop on its back, with an ear-splitting screech of its hull against the ground. When the car settles, the steel exterior groans. The engine purrs loudly, wheels spinning in the air, the clinking of broken glass falling and hitting asphalt.

Silence hangs in the air.

Christoph lays limply in the wreckage, eyes closed and face slack. His head is spinning, his breath shallow, mind wiped clean. Still conscious but battered, Christoph sets his bloody hands flatly on the roof of the car underneath him, and groans. He slowly, carefully lifts his upper half, though sharp pain spikes through his cheek and eye when he does. It has him crying out sharply. He nearly collapses forward again, but manages to keep himself upright despite the difficulty.

Regaining his senses, Christoph slowly, heavily opens his eyes. He winces, struck by that piercing pain again. Glancing around, Christoph realizes he was leaning out of the closed car door, resting atop the jagged glass lining the frame of the window. The glass is tainted red in some spots. Noticing that his field of vision is unusually narrow, Christoph furrows his brow. But investigation will have to wait.

He sets his forearms and elbows down flat against the glass-speckled asphalt. Christoph drags himself out of the wrecked car with a grimace and a strained groan. He manages to get himself out to the hips, until he transfers his effort to his legs, by slowly curling them up out from between the steering wheel and the driver's chair. It takes another minute, but he manages to entirely pull himself out from the destroyed car.

Panting heavily, Christoph unsteadily stumbles up onto his feet, staggering slightly. He groans and presses a hand to his face, but then pauses. He feels something wet against his cheek. He withdraws his shaking hand to see vibrant, ugly blood on his fingers. Shit. Looks like he didn't get out unscathed... But at least he can walk.

Blearily glancing up, he realizes that those men are just down the road, running towards him, yelling at each other. Cursing, Christoph immediately ducks behind the car, reaching into his underarm holster to grab his Beretta. His Glock is missing from his belt, though he's not surprised by this.

How did it get this fucked? Why couldn't they just leave, and avoid causing this shit? Christoph, jaw clenched and teeth grit, trains his cold gaze on their approaching figures. He flips the safety off and pulls back the hammer of his Beretta. The other men slow down to a careful, cautious walk with their guns drawn, gripped tightly in hands as they approach. Scanning for him, surely.

From where he's crouching, he can situate his gun against the upturned tire, keeping himself concealed as he trains both his eye and the gun sight on one of the men. He squeezes the trigger three times, the explosive noise of gunfire ringing out and shattering the silence; two of three bullets embed themselves in the lungs and stomach of the gangster. As he staggers back and collapses, his gun goes off from his reflexive response to clench his hands.

The other three respond by shouting and running up closer to the car.

“Come out here, you fucking asshole!” the leader yells. Christoph flinches and lowers back down behind the car when they fire repeatedly in his direction—the bullets ricochet off the hull or get caught in the tires. Sucking in a sharp breath, Christoph peers out past the side of the car to see them rushing on both sides.

The one closest to him catches his eye and raises his gun a mere split second after Christoph does. With a trained eye and still hands, Christoph squeezes the trigger twice, firing the gun and shooting him in the throat and cheek. He collapses lifelessly onto the asphalt, gun falling to the ground with a clatter. Behind him, his colleague already has his gun trained on Christoph, but Christoph is quicker to pull the trigger than he is. Christoph takes him down by shots to the chest and face.

Whipping around, Christoph intends to shoot down the other man before he could strike, but he's much closer than anticipated—he had rushed up during that exchange. It's the same man he spoke to in the bar. Christoph's eye widens. He attempts to readjust his aim to fire into his face, but the other man smashing his hand against the car has Christoph growling, his hand locking up and dropping the Beretta to the glass-strewn road.

With a malicious, wide-eyed glare on his face, the other gangster points the gun at him; Christoph uses the additional leverage of his crouched position to launch himself into the other man. They hit the ground with a heaved grunt from the other man, and an enraged yell from Christoph. His gun goes flying, banging against the car and landing on the pavement far from them.

Lurching back up, Christoph immediately flexes his arm, clenches a hand into a fist, and twists his torso into the punch as he connects it against the gangster's pierced face. His head is thrown to the side.

“Fuck you!” the other man growls, baring his teeth up at Christoph with fury in his eyes. He hooks his knee into Christoph's side and rolls them over—Christoph doesn't let him get the upper hand by shooting his hands up and squeezing them around his throat as they roll. When he settles on top of Christoph, Christoph thrusts his knee up into his crotch, while releasing one hand from his neck to shove his thumb deeply into his eye. The squelching sound and the pliable flesh of his eye crushing under the force of his thumb has Christoph grimacing. Screaming in agony, the other man collapses onto his side beside him.

Bucking like a wild thing, the gangster continues yelling in pain, clutching at his face while rolling around on the glass scattered across the ground. Christoph staggers back up onto his feet and walks sluggishly towards his Beretta resting at an angle against the side of the car. Hyper-focused on reaching his gun, he doesn't hear the other man climb onto his feet and rush up to him.

Christoph is thrown into the car when their bodies collide, his temple smashing against the dented hull. Static bursts in his vision, his teeth locked and bared. He collapses limply against the side of the car, head spinning and warping from the disorienting strike, while his opponent reaches down to shakily grab his gun.

When Christoph dazedly looks up to see him pointing the gun at his head, he sucks in a sharp breath and jerks out of the way of the bullet's path, narrowly avoiding it for it to pierce the hull of the car. Christoph then uses the support of the car against his side to swing his leg and knock the other man's feet out from underneath him. He meets the pavement, his head smacking hard against the ground.

Moaning in agony, the gangster rolls around a bit, unaware of Christoph rising and stepping up to his fallen body. Standing over him, Christoph narrows his eye down at his twisted face. Then he lifts a foot and calmly, firmly stomps it down over his knee. The angle of which the man had his leg and the force that Christoph uses results in his knee gruesomely popping out of place—it earns the night sky screams of pain.

“Fuck you! Fuck you, you fucking asshole!” the gangster shouts hoarsely at him, his body jerking violently, hands clutching at his lower thigh, above his injured knee. Christoph leans over to calmly grab his Beretta from the ground beside the other man. Straightening up, Christoph looks down at him with disgust, his lip curled and eye dark with wrath and dominance.

“Our difference in skill becomes apparent now,” Christoph states, voice level and cold. The other man stills, looking up at him with a wide eye. His breath catches when Christoph slowly lifts his hand gripping the gun, aiming it at his head. Staring into the man's mangled eye, Christoph says with finality, “This is what happens when you fuck with Tägtgren's men.”

                                                                

He lets those words register before squeezing the trigger three times—he watches the bullets tear apart the other man's skull, splattering his brain across the asphalt. Looking away, Christoph switches the safety back on and slides the gun back into his underarm holster. Smoothing out his suit coat, Christoph then adjusts his cuffs. Glancing around, he takes note of the people watching safely from the windows of their apartments. There are a few cars that have come to a stop down the road, with the drivers standing around, some on their phones.

Sighing, Christoph steps over the corpse with glass crunching underfoot. He ducks his head into the backseat of his demolished car, glancing around for his duffle bag. The illumination provided by the streetlights has him successfully finding it: its resting haphazardly atop the upturned roof of the car. Reaching in with a pained grunt, Christoph snags the straps of the bag and pulls it out.

Hooking it over his shoulder, Christoph begins to pace to the other side of the road, ignoring the commotion from the nearby witnesses. He then disappears into an alleyway. Soon thereafter, he hears the sirens of approaching police units. As he navigates his way to a stairway leading up the side of an apartment building, Christoph touches at his cheek—the blood is still fresh. He knows now, looking around as he ascends the staircase to the roof, that his eye must have retained some damage. He can't blink that eye, and nor can he see out of it.

Flake might be able to resolve that.

Christoph takes a seat once he reaches the top, back against the raised wall. As he listens to the sirens of the cop cars, he withdraws his phone and is relieved to see it survived both the car wreck and the scuffle. Well, that's Nokia for you.

Dialing in Till's number for the second time within the hour, he presses the phone to his ear. Meanwhile, he looks at his hand. It's scratched in many places, most certainly from the glass, and he's missing the fingernails from his middle and ring fingers. His suit coat is shredded in places, too.

“Hello. T speaking.”

Jerking his focus back to the phone call, Christoph speaks bluntly, saying, “T, it's C. They jumped me while I was driving. My car is wrecked. I need someone to pick me up.”

“ _What?_ Where? Are you alright? Where are they?”

Hearing Till's low voice again has Christoph letting out a deep breath. He relaxes just slightly. Looking up at the starry sky, Christoph answers his questions with a level voice, “Maybe half a mile, or less, down Sophie-Charlotten-Straße. I'm on the roof of an apartment building at the moment. I'm... Not sure if I'm alright. But I'm not severely hurt. And they're all dead.”

Silence is the only response he's given, for a long moment. Christoph hears Till breathing. He must be thinking. Christoph feels slightly nauseous. Till speaks firmly then, saying, “C, we'll come and get you. Then we'll figure out what to do when you're back. So for now, tell me which apartment building you're on.”

“I'll have to go and check.”

“If that's a possibility, do it. Keep me on the line.”

“Alright.”

Christoph rises with a strained noise, his face twisting slightly in a grimace—his legs and torso are becoming very sore. His eye and face are pulsating, too. The pain is beginning to make itself known, now that the adrenaline and hyper-focus Christoph had is fading. He pants a bit, trying to regain his composure and his strength.

Attempting to redirect his attention from the intensifying pain throbbing throughout his body, Christoph focuses on limping back towards the winding stairs.

 

* * *

 

The exterior, and shortly thereafter interior, of the strip club has never seemed quite so comforting before. Christoph is lead towards the back entrance by Paul, who somehow decided that holding his arm along the way was necessary. He can certainly still walk; he's just a little slower than usual. The smaller man repeatedly glances back at him with worry on his boyish face as he guides Christoph down the dreary hallway, towards the entrance to the office.

When Paul bursts the door open and leads Christoph in, he proclaims in a wavering voice, “We're back! F, you're—you're going to have to take a look at him!”

Till and Flake are seated together on the sectional, their alert gazes training on the pair who abruptly entered. Christoph nearly collapses to his knees, being in Till's presence again. The pressure, the stress, the effort it took to maintain his composure throughout all of this comes tumbling down upon him. His feet stagger as he follows the panicked Paul towards the others, lead by the grip on his arm. He feels so foolish, so wounded, so vulnerable, so helpless. He absolutely _loathes_ displaying weakness, and he _detests_ relying on others even more.

And yet here he is, beaten and desperate for Till's steadfastness, his calmness, his security.

Which is just what he provides: Till rises from the leather sectional, gripping his cane and striding up to the pair. Encouraged by his approach, Paul begins to stammer unnecessary concerns about Christoph's state, though it goes unrecognized by Till who just looks at Christoph with a hard expression.

Saying nothing, Christoph gazes up at him blankly, swaying slightly on his feet. Till lets his cane fall to the hardwood floor with a clatter. Furrowing his brow, Christoph is unsure what the purpose of that was until Till lifts his broad hands and cups them around Christoph's jaw, wide fingers splaying across his ears and into his short hair. Christoph's eyelid flutters, his mouth slackening. The heat and pure relief that his touch brings nearly has Christoph toppling forward against him, but his restraint keeps him standing, albeit unsteadily.

Christoph's head sags forward into Till's touch, becoming pliable in his hands. His eye is lidded, weakly trained on the other man's stern face. Lips in a deep frown and brow furrowed, Till turns Christoph's lax head slightly, studying the damage.

“Your eye,” Till murmurs, thumbs brushing down over Christoph's cheeks—one strokes over dried blood.

“T,” Christoph says softly, nearly a slur, his blue eye weak and becoming unfocused. Searching Christoph's vulnerable expression, Till lets out a breath, sighing, and then glances towards Flake. Christoph slowly closes his eye, soaking up the contact of his warm hands.

“Bring him over here,” Flake speaks up firmly, “He needs to sit down. He's barely standing.”

The one thing Christoph notices and mourns as he's lead to the leather sectional is that Till's hands are no longer touching him. He takes a heavy seat on the couch when he's directed to, and then he's joined by Paul and Flake. Paul keeps a hand on his shoulder, watching with concern as Flake ties his long blonde hair back into a ponytail, asking Christoph meanwhile, “How do you feel, C?”

“Tired,” Christoph answers thickly, eye lazily trained on the other man, “My face hurts.”

“T said you were in a car accident. Do you feel pain anywhere else?"

“My body is sore,” Christoph mumbles, blinking slowly, “But I assume that's typical after surviving a car rolling.”

“Indeed,” Flake agrees, and says, “For now, let me look at your eye.”

Nodding, Christoph looks dimly at the other as Flake brings his hands up to his bloody face. Gently cradling the back of Christoph's head with one hand, Flake then presses the thumb of his other hand against his cheek. He pulls down slowly, carefully, to draw back his eyelid, which has Christoph grunting lowly in pain. Beside them, Paul sucks in a breath and squeezes Christoph's shoulder. Meanwhile, Till, who had grabbed his cane from the floor, paces up to his desk to pick up the phone.

Inspecting his eye, Flake's face remains unreadable, save for the hard look in his blue eyes.

“The cornea was certainly pierced, and it seems like the lens, as well. But based on my naked gaze, I can't determine whether your vision is salvageable or not,” Flake says lowly, releasing his hold on his cheek. Christoph looks at him dazedly. Flake sighs, resting his hands down on his lap as he searches in Christoph's bloody eye. Mumbling to himself, Flake says, “We need to bring you to an ophthalmologist.”

Looking over his shoulder towards Till, who's flipping through his phone book, phone pressed to his ear, Flake calls, “T! Would we happen to have an ophthalmologist available for something _slightly_ urgent?”

Punching in a number, Till says, “Yes.”

“F, he still has fucking glass in his eye,” Paul stammers suddenly with a panicked expression, earning Flake's gaze, “Are you not going to take it out?”

“No,” Flake answers, rising from the sectional to stride up to the first aid kit mounted on the wall, grabbing it, “Removing a foreign object from an injured eye is the last thing you want to do.”

Christoph sits there silently, hands in his lap, with his gaze trained on nothing in particular. Paul looks at him with a frown and worry in his eyes, running his hand down from his shoulder to rest over his bicep. Flake returns to the sectional and sits down beside Christoph again. He opens the first aid kit and withdraws a clear eye shield and a roll of cloth medical tape. After cutting off two long pieces, Flake fixes his gaze on Christoph's again.

“Hold still,” Flake says flatly, while lifting the eye shield to his injured eye. Behind them, Till begins to speak firmly into the phone. Pinning the shield in place, Flake then flattens one strip of the cloth tape over the eye shield, taping it to the bone surrounding his eye. He does the same with the other strip of tape, making sure it's fixed securely to Christoph's face. Glancing over the result, Flake rakes his fingers up through his blonde bangs, before setting his hand back down on his thigh. He then states bluntly, searching in Christoph's remaining eye, “I don't know if you'll regain your vision, C. You need to come to terms with that possibility.”

Paul looks at Flake with a disgusted grimace, squeezing his hand around Christoph's bicep.

“F, what the hell is wrong with you? How about pulling your goddamn punches?” he snaps, “He just survived a car wreck, and four armed men who were trying to _kill him._ Lay off, why don't you?”

“P,” Christoph says firmly, earning his shaken gaze. Christoph looks at him coldly, face in a scowl.

“I don't need your sympathy, nor your unwanted protection. F is being realistic, while you're being coddling. Take your hand off me.”

Face flickering with shock and then anger, Paul withdraws his hand. He shoves himself up off of the couch and strides away. Christoph doesn't care where he's going; he fixes his dazed gaze on Flake. Flake looks at him, eyes hard and brow knit. He speaks lowly, saying with confidence, “You'll be fine. You will make an excellent gunman despite the lessened vision. T has faith in you.”

Silently surprised by what he said, Christoph looks at him wordlessly with his brow furrowing slightly. Flake reaches out to awkwardly pat him on the shoulder, and then stands from the couch, leaving the younger man to join Till at his desk, if only to figure out when they can get Christoph to an eye surgeon.

 

* * *

 

The words before him are slowly blending together, into a mesh of gibberish. His thoughts repeatedly redirect to something other than the subject of the book he's currently attempting to distract himself with. He stares blankly at the pages. Seated on his bed under the covers, Christoph is alone.

The window beside his bed is open. The curtains are drawn, spilling early morning sunlight into the room. He can smell the sun, the air, the book in his hands. Despite these comforting elements, Christoph's mind is far gone, wading through macabre recollections.

Coming to with his face resting atop the jagged glass lining the broken car window. The scattered remains of the windshield digging into his palms and belly as he drags himself from the wreckage. The agitated hum of the engine, the spinning tires, the creaking and groaning of the car hull as it settles. The explosive gunfire, the spray of vibrant blood, the muted thud of a lifeless body meeting asphalt. The sensation of that man's eye crushing underneath his thumb, the piercing screams that followed. Witnessing himself tear apart his face and his skull with gunfire, spilling blood and brain across the concrete.

And now he lays, lacking sight in one eye.

He may be discarded because of it. He may be _disposed_ of. Till will have to replace him with a man more competent than he, a man with his entire field of vision. Christoph lacking complete eyesight results in less awareness. Less awareness means a greater chance to make mistakes. The thought that he's less capable with reduced ability due to this handicap sickens him, enrages him.

The intrusive thought to rip off his bandages and crush his ruined eye with his fingers like he had done to that man surges within him. He curls his lip and snaps his book shut.

The sound of the front door opening has him freezing. Immediately, he grabs his gun resting on the nightstand and silently slips off of the bed to crawl underneath it. Peering out from below the bed as he flicks off the safety, Christoph waits with his arms resting flatly in front of him on the hard floor of his bedroom, gun trained at the door. His icy blue eye is intense with focus. He hears heavy footsteps. The bedroom door is then slowly drawn open, revealing bulky black boots—and a leg brace. Christoph's stern expression softens. When the other man steps out of the room, realizing Christoph is not there, Christoph quietly pulls himself out from underneath the bed. He grimaces slightly at the aching pain that blooms throughout his body.

Setting his gun back on the nightstand after turning the safety back on, Christoph sighs and runs his hand up through his short dark hair.

“C?” he hears Till call.

“In here.”

Till pauses, and then begins towards the bedroom again. Christoph trains his gaze on the door. Till appears, a bewildered expression on his face. His black hair isn't gelled up into the usual mohawk. It's brushed back into a small bun, which startles Christoph. He's wearing casual clothing: black jeans, his boots, and a leather jacket. He's noticeably lacking his cane.

“Under the bed,” Christoph explains flatly, eying up his unusual appearance. He's never seen him like this before. Till's lips curl up into the faintest smile. He nods. He then steps closer. Christoph glances down, realizing that he brought something. It's an oval shaped plastic container.

“That mushroom and spinach crepe you like so much,” Till says, holding it out for him. Christoph pauses. He eyes the other man as he slowly reaches out to take the plastic container from him. He searches Till's face.

“You didn't have to,” Christoph says blankly, gazing into his vibrant green eyes. Till nods. He isn't smiling, though his eyes are kind.

“I wanted to. Shall I go get you a fork?”

Looking away, Christoph shakes his head and reaches out to set the container on the nightstand, beside his gun.

“No. I'll eat it later. Thanks.”

“Sure.”

Christoph's legs are beginning to hurt, so he moves to sit back down on the bed. Till hovers with uncertainty, his hands clenching into loose fists by his sides. Christoph eyes him up and down as he gets settled on the bed. He speaks lowly, saying, “Why did you come here.”

Hesitating to answer at first, Till looks at him with an unreadable expression. He then crosses the distance to join him on the bed. The bed dips and creaks from Till's rather sizable additional weight. Christoph's face flushes suddenly, when Till's knee presses to his own. This close, he can smell the cologne on him.

“I wanted to reassure you,” Till answers. Peeking over at him, Christoph notices that his eyes are trained entirely on him. Unsure what to make of what he said, Christoph says nothing. He just looks at him. Till's face is nearly expressionless, as it tends to be, save for that look in his eyes. He goes on, speaking lowly.

“I am relieved that you survived. It would've been... harrowing to lose my brother.”

Surprise blooming faintly in Christoph's eye, he looks at Till with the wariness fading from his face. He runs his tongue between his lips, wetting them, and then speaks quietly, saying with an unusual softness in his blue eye, “I am glad I still have a usefulness to you and the family. I want to remain valuable.”

“I didn't mean it like that,” Till remarks with the slightest edge to his deep voice, which has Christoph stilling and looking at him with confusion. Letting out a breath, Till goes on to say lowly, gazing deeply into Christoph's eye, “C, I don't see you as an object, or as a weapon to use as I so please. While that may be the case for Tägtgren, it does not apply to me, or how I see you. Do you understand? You are my brother, and I care about your well-being beyond your 'usefulness'.”

Speechless, Christoph stares at him with a slightly widened eye. He feels his heart clench. Till gazing at him with that insistent, passionate look in his eyes has this peculiar warmth coiling in Christoph's chest. Opening his mouth, Christoph tries to produce an appropriate response, but fails to do so. He closes his mouth again. Till laughs lightly, which has Christoph's face burning.

Reaching up with both hands, Till suddenly cups the back of his head, over his short hair. Christoph's entire body surges with tension. Staring with a hardness in his face, Christoph watches him lean in and press their foreheads together. Christoph's heart begins to pound. He feels so overwhelmed, so suddenly. Till is being... _Affectionate_.

“You don't have to say anything,” Till says, gazing intently into Christoph's eye, “Just know that you aren't going to be discarded. You are valuable. Not just in your skill, but in the bonds you share with your brothers.”

Christoph looks at him wordlessly with a stony expression, silently astonished. Till squeezes his hair in his broad hands and then lets him go, leaning away again. Christoph's tension dissipates. Till reaching down to pat him firmly over the wrist, fingers resting along the back of his hand, has Christoph dropping his gaze to watch. Till's hand is massive in comparison to his own.

“I'm going to get you that fork. For your first task of the day,” Till begins, rising from the bed, “I will ask you to eat. No argument, C.”

Panning his gaze up to settle on his superior, Christoph spots the faint amused expression on his rugged face. Swallowing hard, Christoph shakily strokes at his wrist with slender fingers, where Till had touched. The faintest smile pulls at Christoph's lips—Till manages to spot it before it disappears soon after. Christoph nods, gazing up into his green eyes as he murmurs, “Yes, sir.”

 

* * *

 

The same night, long after Till had departed and left Christoph with his thoughts, Christoph stands at his bathroom sink. Staring at his reflection in the mirror, Christoph studies the white bandage over the right side of his face. He glances over his developing facial hair, his mussed hair, his remaining icy blue eye. Something inside of him feels gaping and empty—hollow. But another part had been opened, and then filled.

With a buzzing hair clipper in his grasp, he watches himself with a cold, stony gaze as he raises the tool to his head. Clumps of dark hair fall from his scalp, to gather around his bare feet on the tile of the bathroom floor.


	8. Koennt Ihr Mich Fuehlen?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard spends three weeks taking care of Paul as he recovers from the gunshot wound. Naturally, that progresses some things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "Could you feel me?"
> 
> Realistically, Paul would need more extensive care since his thigh and artery got fucked up, but bear with me. I can't spend chapters on physical therapy and all that shit.

Like Richard predicted, Paul whines. He complains, and bitches about the pain, and bellyaches about how shitty this whole situation is, and how, of course, _he_ was the one that got shot. But thankfully, that stage of moaning and whining passes once his focus to recover claims the foreground.

After having a MRI scan and an neurovascular exam, Paul is, luckily, free of any additional complications. For now, anyways. He's monitored for any failures in the procedure of repairing his femoral artery, though it seems to be holding well—which is relieving. Flake had told Richard soon after the surgery that if he had brought him in even a minute later, he would've most likely died from blood loss. The mere idea that there's a chance that could happen yet due to possible complications constantly has Richard on edge, until two weeks have passed and Paul has progressed from being bedridden, to getting around in a wheelchair. It gives Richard more confidence.

Additionally, Richard feels somewhat accountable for the entire incident. Because of this, he tends to spend the majority of his days with Paul. The only time he really leaves is to check in with Till and the others, grab something from his place, or go out to get some more groceries for the sake of feeding Paul and himself. He often wryly thinks that he's practically living with Paul at this point, especially considering he's been sleeping on the couch.

Every other day, a physical therapist visits for an hour. Paul does simple stretches and exercises to work the healing muscle in his thigh, if only to improve mobility, blood flow, and to prevent blood clots. Richard takes this opportunity to call Till for updates, to ask if he's needed, which Till always answers that he is not—Paul needs him there. If not that, he goes outside to smoke considering Paul gets cranky if his apartment gets congested with smoke as if a fire broke out, due to the other man smoking so _damn much_.

In addition to Paul's recovery, it's somewhat of a healing process for Richard as well.

Being busy with Paul's well-being distracts him from alcohol and drugs. To begin with, drinking isn't such a frequent occurrence as much as consuming drugs is, which becomes apparent when Richard began to feel restless and _depressed_ quite frequently, after almost a week of no coke. He wasn't insanely addicted—he didn't snort that garbage every single day—but... He, at least, had a habit of doing it every weekend. And he certainly had not forgotten of this routine. It's often on his mind. He even _had_ cocaine available to him, waiting for his return at home. But he restrains himself.

Caring for Paul has made him realize that he doesn't need it. It's given him the ideal that he can be better than that.

Which is what he had told Paul over a year ago now: he wants to become better than Christoph. Yet, he's not. Not nearly close, at all. He still has his head buried underneath the cocaine, he still struggles with the never-ending desire for sex—this addiction to bring himself away from himself, his reality. The highs, the sexual contact is all for the sake of hiding.

Being with Paul—who had nearly _died_ , who is steadfastly working through this recovery despite his suffering and agitation—has brought Richard to the realization that even if has to bear the discomfort of withdrawal, as much as he misses the high that coke gives him, he's _happy_ when he's around Paul. Or at least, as happy as he is capable of being. So why should he chase that distraction if that contentment is right here before him?

Not to mention, ditching Paul for the sake of doing blow would be pretty despicable.

 

When the storm of withdrawal passes following ten days of this restlessness and irritable depression, Richard is more or less back to his normal, standoffish self. Meanwhile, Paul had advanced from being confined to a wheelchair, to having the mobility and strength to use crutches.

They're both making progress.

 

* * *

 

 On a slower, quieter day, when he isn't expecting his physical therapist and he has the reserved energy to move about on his crutches, Paul gets up from his bed and limps his way into the living room. Richard is standing at the counter. The clicking of his crutches earns a glance from the other man, who greets him with a nod and, “Hey, P. Good timing. I was fixing you some tea.”

“Tea? I don't have any tea,” Paul remarks, coming to a stop beside Richard, peering over his shoulder to see him bobbing a tea bag in hot, steaming water.

“Well, I do. Tea is healthy for you, so you should drink it.”

“Should? As in, I don't have to?”

Richard looks at him with an unamused furrow of his brow. Paul grins and says, “Kidding. Just dump some milk and sugar in there, will you? I don't like bitter tasting things.”

“Sure.”

Paul watches him yank open the fridge and reach in to grab the milk. He eyes him up, taking note of the fact he's wearing a tight black top that accentuates his biceps and chest _very well,_ and some fitting black jeans. His hair is in the usual gelled hairstyle, but Paul isn't surprised by that. He's always been fussy about his hair. Paul stares at his muscular thighs a little too long for his own comfort, so he averts his gaze to watch him pour milk into the tea.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Paul asks, shaking himself out of his flustered thoughts. Richard looks at him with an arched brow. He screws the cap back on and shoves the milk back into the fridge as he says, “Can't right now. I have to run and pick up your pain meds.”

“You... Don't have to do that for me,” Paul mumbles, reaching up to scratch at the back of his head with a furrowing brow. Richard looks at him blankly as he shakes sugar into his tea.

“I've been doing it for weeks, P.”

“And I say that every time: you don't have to.”

“Well, I want to.”

“You do realize they can just be delivered here, right? T would make sure it happens.”

Richard clenches his jaw, staring down at the murky surface of the tea as he reseals the bag of sugar. Paul searches his profile, finding the frustration in his frown, his hard eyes, his knit brow. Paul presses his lips together and drops his gaze to watch Richard mix the sugar in with spins of a spoon. His gloved hand rests on the counter.

“Do you feel guilty?” Paul asks quietly, nervously squeezing his hand around the handle of his crutch, “Is that why you're going out to pick up the medicine? And cooking for me. And staying here, every night. And making me _tea_.”

Richard sets the spoon down with blatant agitation. He sets his hand on the counter and trains his gaze on Paul. Paul meets it and holds his gaze, his expression schooled to hide his own discomfort. Richard's face is unmoving, maintaining that same tense look. He then drops his gaze to stare at the tea, cowardly. He speaks in a mumble, rubbing a thumb over a droplet of tea that the spoon had pooled on the counter, “Yes. But I'm also doing it because I care about you.”

“Ha,” Paul begins to say with a grin, but then Richard holds up a finger and says firmly, eyes hard, “We already went over this. Yes, you asshole, I do care about you.”

Face straightening, Paul looks at him with bewilderment.

“We did? When?”

The faintest smile tugs at Richard's lips.

“It was the same night of the surgery. Well, you were still high from the anesthesia...”

“Oh.”

“Either way,” Richard begins, sliding the mug of tea closer towards the other man. Paul watches his face as Richard speaks quietly, eyes remaining downcast, “I wanted to apologize. I don't know why I haven't yet. But... I should've been more careful. I should've watched your back, but... I was being careless. So, I'm sorry. I wish I could've taken the fucking bullet instead.”

His intense green eyes flick up to meet Paul's. Paul doesn't anticipate it when he steps closer and reaches out to carefully, gently wrap his arms around his upper back, pulling him into a hug that lasts only a moment. Paul barely has time to react by lifting a hand from his crutch with intention to reciprocate the embrace, before Richard squeezes him and then draws away, giving him a faint, strained smile. Paul, speechless, watches the other man turn away and begin towards the front door.

At the door, Richard pulls on his boots, which has zippers on the sides considering tying laces is difficult, and then grabs his coat off the hook on the wall. Following him with noisy taps of his crutches, Paul speaks up, saying firmly with a concerned expression, “Richard, it wasn't your fault. I was unaware, too. He was just some old fuck, I didn't think he was hiding a fucking gun in his desk with intention to _kill_ us. I was careless, too, alright? I think you're just using this as a way to take the blame. You have a habit of hurting yourself, whether you realize it or not, and this is only a way to contribute to that.”

With his jacket half-way up his back, Richard pauses, and then finishes pulling it on before turning to face the other man. The expression on his face is unreadable—nearly expressionless save for the straight frown on his lips. Silence hangs between them for a long moment, their eyes locked.

“I don't know what to say to that,” Richard states blankly, brow furrowing. Paul nearly laughs. He manages a weak smile, stifling the urge. Honestly, he expected a more violent, angry response. Maybe Richard is finally improving. Paul speaks again, softer.

“You don't have to say anything. I just want you to forgive yourself. I want you to be happy.”

Saying this has Paul shutting his mouth. He didn't mean to say _that_ much. Richard looks at him like he said something incredibly bizarre. He tilts his head, lips in a deepened frown, and flicks his gaze away to some other place that isn't Paul's eyes. Paul, desperate to mend this before Richard snaps, reaches out to place his hand on his shoulder, squeezing slightly. He reopens his mouth to say something more, but Richard beats him to it.

“I. I'm going to go,” Richard mutters, and then almost desperately unlocks and yanks open the door to stride out, leaving Paul with a firm shut of the door. Paul sighs and then turns to limp back to the counter where his tea awaits his consumption.

 

Richard returns much sooner than Paul anticipated; seemingly right after grabbing the medication, which is shocking. Paul expected to be avoided for at least three hours, a few days at most. While Richard doesn't announce his return, he does make a lot of noise by reentering and kicking off his boots. Paul is in his bedroom, looking through a photo album out of pure boredom when he hears his arrival. He immediately grabs his crutches and gets up with a strained expression.

Entering the living room like he had earlier, Paul finds Richard standing at the TV, flipping through his personal collection of movies—which he had brought over weeks ago considering he become sick of Paul's very limited collection, very quickly. The bag of medicine is on the coffee table. He glances up towards Paul, and then back down at the DVDs.

“Hey,” he says flatly, and then goes on to say, “What movie did you have in mind?”

“I'm sorry,” Paul blurts, earning Richard's gaze again, and a cocked brow. Letting out a breath, Paul goes on to say while searching in the other man's eyes, “I was out of line. I didn't need to say that shit.”

“No,” Richard remarks, looking into Paul's eyes unwaveringly as he says, “You were right. I'm a self-destructive asshole. I need to get over myself, because like you said, I tend to look for anything to hurt myself with. Because, well, I don't _fucking_ know. I hate myself, I guess.”

Shaking his head once with agitation, Richard drops his gaze back to the movies and begins to aggressively flick through the pages, his expression darkening. Paul softens, his stomach twisting. He frowns and watches Richard's scowl form. He steps closer with clicks of his crutches, which has Richard's aggravated flipping come to a stop. Paul leans in to press his forehead to the side of Richard's head. Richard reflexively bringing one arm around him to stabilize him has Paul smiling.

“Well, I don't hate you. In fact, I'm really glad that you're here,” Paul says quietly, gazing down at Richard's hand clutching the binder of movies, taking notice of how he painted his nails black, “So, I mean, yeah, you are kind of a self-destructive asshole, but that's something that you _became_. So you can become something else, can't you? And I'll be right here, the entire time, if you decide to try and change.”

Richard doesn't move. He doesn't say anything, for a long moment. Paul flicks his gaze up to look at Richard's profile, this so close up with their heads connected. Richard's eyes are downcast, his brow relaxed and lips in a slight frown. He squeezes his arm slightly around Paul. Paul watches his lips move as he speaks.

“Yeah. Thank you, Paul. That... That makes me feel... Glad. To hear.”

He sounds tense and awkward admitting that, but confessing such a thing to begin with has Paul smiling. Richard pauses when the other man reaches up to lightly press his fingers against his cheek. Drawing back just slightly, Paul gently turns Richard's head for him to face him. Richard looks at him with a hard expression, his jaw clenched and eyes defensive. Paul continues smiling, his eyes warm and searching in Richard's. Glancing down to his mouth, Paul stares at it, wishing it would mimic his own. He wants to see him smile again.

Leaning in, Paul angles his head and kisses him softly, without truly considering it, nor the consequences. Richard freezes, his arm clenching around Paul's back. Paul keeps his fingers against his cheek, feeling the rough texture of his stubble. Richard letting out a breath and carefully kissing him back has Paul relaxing and smiling faintly against his lips.

Running his broad hand up over Paul's back, Richard's kissing becomes slightly more enthusiastic, once he feels his smile. Paul begins to grin, but attempts to repress it to properly return the kiss. Their lips move together in a soft, slow back and forth, the quiet noises of their kissing filling the silence of the room, and ultimately Paul's face with a flustered heat. He's surprised when Richard is first to pull away.

He meets Paul's eyes, his hand settled in the center of his back. Paul is biting his bottom lip to repress his broad grin, but it slips through regardless. Gradually, Richard's lips break into an amused grin too, exposing his teeth and his crow's feet. Seeing that has Paul staring and somehow, grinning even wider. Richard snorts and says lowly, eyes lidded, “You look like a fucking goofball, smiling like that.”

“Shut up,” Paul laughs, warmth burning in his cheeks. Richard's grin softens to a smile. He strokes his hand up and down over Paul's back and then says, “Go sit on the couch. I'll get your blankets. And you still have to decide what we're watching.”

“Um, sure,” Paul replies, a little flustered. Richard slides his hand from his back and then makes his way to Paul's bedroom. While Richard grabs the covers from his bed, Paul carefully sits down on the couch with a slight grimace. His leg feels numb and tingly whenever he puts strain on it. It doesn't hurt, which is solely due to the medication he's taking.

The blanket Richard has been using to sleep on the couch is bundled up on the other end. Reaching out, Paul grabs it, smiling to himself, and unravels it to drape it over his lap. Richard returns, arms full with Paul's comforter. He dumps it on top of the other man, who sputters a laugh and says from underneath the mound, “Jerk.”

Richard silently turns to the TV stand to grab the DVD binder again. He waits for Paul to situate the blankets over himself before taking a seat beside him. Paul becomes very aware of the warmth radiating from the other man when he leans against him, flipping open the case to show him the movies.

“Not Tarantino,” Paul remarks cheekily, which has Richard making a slight noise of annoyance.

“I don't know what you have against his movies. They're fucking great.”

“Well... Reservoir Dogs is kinda cool.”

“Was that so hard?”

“Yes.”

 

An hour into _Reservoir Dogs_ , Richard clears his throat and asks suddenly with his gaze remaining trained on the TV screen, “So, why did you kiss me?”

Pausing, Paul flicks his gaze over to look at Richard's profile. With his legs resting across Richard's lap (only due to Richard _insisting_ on this arrangement—for Paul's comfort), laying back over the couch himself, Paul suddenly becomes flustered from the combination of this physical contact and his bold question.

“I don't know,” Paul begins with a nervous laugh, running his hand through his hair at the back of his head. When Richard looks over at him, brow arched (a habit of his, Paul previously noticed), Paul shrugs with an unsure expression on his face.

“I just wanted to. The urge came out of nowhere. So I just... Acted on it without thinking. I mean, it has been like, a year, since you kissed me, so... I guess it was just... Born from that. And had built over time. And the moment was just... Right.”

“...Got it,” Richard says, looking back towards the TV. Paul's heart leaps when Richard's hand, resting atop the blanket over his legs, squeezes slightly. Paul tries, and fails, to repress his smile. Silence hangs for a long few minutes, minutes that are choking Paul with tension and equal embarrassment. Richard isn't saying anything more. Paul gathers his courage, brow knit, and speaks.

“Let me ask you something in return, Richard.”

Richard glances back at him. Paul is becoming quickly overwhelmed and flustered, so he just keeps his gaze trained on the TV.

“Did you mean what you said... At Tresor.”

A long pause, and then Richard states, “I said a lot of things. You might have to be more specific. The combination of coke and alcohol impairs my memory a bit. Especially when it was almost a month ago.”

Lifting a hand, Paul presses it over his face with exasperation. Richard nudging him on the leg has him looking at him past his fingers with a lack of amusement in his eyes. Richard begins to smirk. Paul sighs and lifts his hand with frustration, saying, “It wasn't exactly appropriate. You can't expect me to say it word for word.”

“So generalize,” Richard remarks, unfazed by the implications. Paul huffs. He opens his mouth, and then closes it, his face heating. Richard's faint smirk returns, as does the arched brow. Paul decides to just blurt it out, despite his reluctance.

“You said you wanted to blow me. Were you saying that because you were high and wanted someone to fuck, or were you saying that because you're attracted to me in that way? I just want some straight answers, because it's been bugging the shit out of me.”

He looks at Richard with a frown and embarrassment in his gray eyes. Richard's smirk drops. He looks at Paul blankly, and then his face twists with a slight cringe.

“Did I really... Say that.”

“Yes, while feeling me up.”

“Oh, Christ,” Richard mutters, who now presses his hand to his face. Paul would laugh over his reaction if not for his own discomfort. Richard drops his hand atop Paul's legs and looks at the other man with guilty eyes and a curled lip of disgust, at himself.

“Sorry. I get a little too... Eager when I'm high.”

“No shit. I know that.”

Richard sighs heavily and rakes his hand up through his gelled hair, before rubbing at his eyes with his thumb and fingers, grimacing slightly. Paul waits patiently, crossing his arms with his gaze trained on the other man's twisted face. Richard throws up a hand, groaning, and then says with exasperation, “I mean, I guess! If I tell a guy I want to blow him, then yeah, it means I'm into him sexually.”

“Even now? It wasn't just because of the drugs?” Paul asks firmly, ignoring the pounding of his heart and the nervousness twisting in his chest. Jesus, he's thirty-six and just this simple discussion is flustering him way too fucking much. But... It has been a while since he's actually had to face something like this. The only... _romance_ he's experienced since his last girlfriend were brief hook-ups, if those could even be _considered_ romance.

“Not _right now_ ,” Richard blurts, nearly stammering with another embarrassed grimace. Paul shook his head sharply, looking at him with a furrowed brow. Richard sighs, rubbing at his brow, and goes on to say with a calmer tone, “But, uh... It wasn't _because_ of the coke. It was just... Accelerated by the coke.”

“Okay,” Paul says quietly, “Thank you for being honest.”

“...Sure.”

Tense, awkward silence surrounds them as they attempt to refocus on the movie. Paul is kind of nervous and uneasy, but doesn't move to leave. Richard sighs again, seemingly frustrated. Paul hopes he didn't ruin anything. He just needed answers. Richard's hand isn't moving away from his legs though, which is a good sign. Richard tends to withdraw when he's really upset or uncomfortable. Gunfire and shouting from the movie fills in the long five minutes of silence until Richard speaks again, barely heard past the noise.

“Do—Do you feel anything like that. For me. Just so I don't sit here wondering, like a fucking tool.”

Glancing at him, Paul watches his profile as he registers what he said. Richard is looking at the TV with an embarrassed expression, his elbow propped on the armrest of the couch with his chin in the palm of his gloved hand, fingers limply curled. It's kind of cute and has Paul smiling faintly.

“No...” he begins to say quietly, letting out a breath before he goes on, “But that can change.”

That earns a glance from the other man. Paul continues smiling slightly, now directed at him. Richard searches his face, a look of subtle surprise in his eyes. He nods, and gives Paul a weak attempt of a smile. Paul snorts. He looks at Richard with amusement, saying jokingly, “You need to work on smiling.”

Richard scowls weakly at him, though there's no ferocity behind it.

“Shut up.”

Grinning, Paul reaches out to pat him over the hand that rests on his legs.

“I appreciate you trying though. I think your smile is nice.”

“Well, now I know to show it even less.”

“What? Am I not allowed to enjoy it? C'mon, Richard.”

“Nope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More on Christoph next chapter!! Because I can't get enough of that beautiful boy.


	9. Ich Will Das Ihr Mich Gut Seht

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christoph recovers from the eye surgery. Additionally, he confronts feelings built from many things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "I want you to see me clearly"
> 
> Warning for alcohol/drug use.

Despite the fact Till had granted him two weeks off to recover from the eye surgery, Christoph returns to the office only two days following the procedure. At eleven in the morning, wearing the typical black suit, Christoph paces his way through the lobby and seated area of the strip club, his body washed out with orange and pink neon lights. The girls dance smoothly on the stage to the tempo of the bass, earning hardly even a glance from him as he passes. A waitress stops him to say good morning, putting a hand on his arm, though he is familiar with her so it doesn't bother him. He nods at the bartender as he paces by, and then he's alone when he pulls open the back door and steps into the dimly lit hallway.

At the door to the office, Christoph doesn't hesitate to push it open and stride in. Raising his gaze, Christoph pans his gaze over his colleagues. Paul is standing at Till's desk, holding some papers, with Till seated at said desk. Flake is reading a book quietly on the leather sectional, legs crossed tightly. Till looking back towards him has Christoph letting out a breath, seeing his face again. The others stare at him. Till's lips curl into the slightest smile. He must have expected his premature return. Paul is the first to speak, exclaiming with a raised, exasperated hand, “C! You're supposed to be resting!”

“So I am,” Christoph says, closing the door behind himself. Flake goes back to reading. Paul scoffs and eyes the other man as he calmly paces up with noisy taps of his dress shoes on the hardwood floor, his hands in loose fists by his sides. Till pans his gaze up from his shoes to his hair. Paul then notices, too. He gawks at Christoph, eyes wide. With a rather rude point, considering Christoph is now standing two feet from him, Paul sputters, “Y-Your hair!”

Saying nothing, Christoph looks at him blankly, one eye covered with a white bandage. Dropping his gaze to settle it on Till, Christoph looks into his amused green eyes and says nothing. Paul reaching out to rub his hand vigorously over his short mohawk isn't surprising to Christoph. He lifts a hand to calmly push his arm away. Paul laughs.

“It looks good! You look like a mean motherfucker.”

“I am a mean motherfucker.”

Till laughing lowly has Christoph nearly smiling but he manages to repress it, his icy blue eye training on Till's grinning face.

“Welcome back, C,” Till says, fondly. He extends a hand, smirking faintly. He remains seated, so Christoph takes it as a joke. Reaching out, he grips Till's hand firmly, shakes it, and says with the faintest smile in his eye, “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

Standing shirtless at his bathroom sink two weeks later, Christoph delicately peels off the bandage over his eye. Tossing the dressing into the garbage, Christoph then fixes his gaze on the mirror again. His eye is no longer a grotesque sight. Despite the injury it had endured, it had healed well. It's sunken very slightly due to the damage to his lens and cornea, but the eye itself isn't disfigured. The only trait that reveals his lack of vision is the cloudiness in his cornea and iris.

If anything, it looks intimidating. Christoph had given it plenty of time to heal, so he doesn't apply another bandage, nor don the black eye patch he had been given. He leaves the bathroom to get dressed for work.

 

In the office, Christoph walks in to find Till speaking on the phone, cigarette lit between his fingers. He's gesturing with blatant agitation, the smoke of the ignited cigarette leaving trails in the air. Paul glances over at Christoph's entrance and lifts a hand briefly in hello, seated at the sectional. Christoph gives him a nod and approaches quietly, casting a glance towards Till as he passes. Till's impatient green eyes flick up to land on him.

“You're lacking the eye patch, C,” Paul says once Christoph comes to a stop beside the sectional, which earns Christoph's attention and his gaze again. Christoph looks down into his curious gray eyes and nods.

“Your eye looks creepy as hell,” Paul laughs, gazing up into it with a tilted head and a grin. Christoph stares at him wordlessly. Paul snorts, his crow's feet appearing briefly.

“That will work great for intimidation tactics. If only it would work itself.”

“Funny,” Christoph says flatly, unamused. Paul lifts his hands defensively, leaning back into the sectional with a smile. Till abruptly slamming the phone back on the hook has both men pausing and glancing towards their leader. Till is rubbing firmly at his brow, while roughly putting his cigarette out in his desk's ashtray. Watching him, Christoph is curious to know what is irritating him, but knows better than to pry.

“What's up, T?” Paul asks, who severely lacks restraint in comparison to the other man. Till sighs and lowers his hand from his face to begin reorganizing his desk, righting a stack of papers before sliding them into a folder.

“Nothing that concerns you,” Till remarks, while he turns towards his filing cabinet to refile the folder. Christoph looks down at Paul blankly. Paul nods with deep bobs of his head, sarcastically, and then flicks his gaze up to look at the other man with an amused smirk curling at his lips. Christoph slides his hands into the pockets of his slacks, staring down at him. Paul then rises from the couch, reaching out to slap Christoph on the bicep as he proclaims, “Well, you know what this means? We can celebrate! You've officially recovered from that whole incident, right? Now you can move the fuck on!”

“It's not worthy of a celebration,” Christoph answers blankly, looking at him with a frown. Paul shrugs with a tilt of his head, before he grins and exclaims, “Alright, then we don't need a reason! I just feel like drinking! It's been slow and I'm bored out of my mind!”

“Then go drink,” Christoph sighs, becoming tired of him. He glances up to see Till standing at his desk, hand on the back of his chair. He's watching the pair with a hard gaze, though he speaks up to say firmly, “P, go down to the liquor store. Buy a bottle of malt whiskey, and unflavored vodka. F will return from his meeting soon. I agree. It is worth marking as an important occasion.”

Christoph stares at Till with a furrowed brow. Till gives him a slight nod while grabbing his cane from the side of his desk. Paul claps his hands together and shouts with a laugh, “That's my wonderful boss! You got it, T. Any food I should get?”

“C?” T prompts, as he begins towards the other two with taps of his cane. Christoph frowns. Fixing his gaze on the smaller man who's beaming up at him like he's made purely of sunshine, Christoph lets out a slight sigh. He presses his lips together. Paul tilts his head with raised eyebrows, encouraging him. Christoph squints at him.

“Fruit,” he states flatly. Paul blinks and then bursts out a laugh.

“ _Fruit?”_

Christoph nods.

“Fruit compliments alcohol. I... Enjoy eating fruit while drinking. It balances out the intake of liquid with substance, while tasting sweet.”

Paul smiles and says, “Okay, you weirdo. Any preference?”

“No.”

“Got it. I'll be back then!” Paul proclaims with a raised fist, and then stomps his way to the back door that leads out into the parking lot, fist still raised. Till watches him shove out of the office, and then the door closes with a loud click of the latch. He fixes his gaze on Christoph, who's staring at him in return. Standing close together, Christoph suddenly feels suffocated, under his gaze. Overcome with an unusual nervousness, he internally panics. Which, too, is unlike him. Looking away, Christoph says nothing.

“How are you feeling?” Till asks abruptly, which earns him Christoph's eyes again. Christoph stares at him blankly, his face schooled, like it tends to be. Till watches him patiently, his face lacking that typical hard expression. Christoph is unsure what to say. He's unsure if he's even feeling anything at the moment, aside from nervousness. So he decides to be honest.

“I'm uneasy,” he says.

“Why so?”

“I don't know,” he states, truthfully. He looks away, to the side.

Till nods silently. He reaches out and squeezes him on the shoulder gently, saying, “Are you angry?”

“Why would I be angry?” Christoph remarks, fixing his calm gaze on the other man again. Till keeps his hand on his shoulder. He looks deeply into Christoph's blue eye, searching in it. Christoph holds his gaze, unwaveringly. Till speaks lowly, keeping their eyes locked as he says, “Because you lost an eye. Hellner's men attacked you. You had to resort to ending their lives. It resulted in more tension between the families.”

“Yes,” Christoph begins, voice cold and eye hard, “Those are things that should anger me.”

Till arches a brow.

“But they aren't.”

“No. The only thing that angers me is the fact I was careless.”

He feels disgusting, talking about it with the one man he respects. He hates to lay out his weaknesses before him like this, but Till wants to know how he feels. So he won't withhold anything from him, nor will he lie. He wants Till to trust him. The other man looks at him with an understanding gaze, his lips in a line. He nods and pats Christoph on the shoulder before withdrawing his hand.

“But you discovered your ability, and how to improve it, did you not?” Till begins lowly, gazing into his remaining eye as he goes on, “You overcame that obstacle. You proved to me you are capable, you are adept in handling those situations. There were four armed men, C, who had the element of surprise. You were one man with a pistol. Your ability has only room to improve. As regretful as it was, what happened was only a step into that progression.”

Silently, Christoph stares at the other man with a calmer look in his blue eye. He isn't sure what to say. But, somehow, Till had known his subconscious feelings. He _does_ feel like he changed. There was more to it than just loss—there was something to be _gained_. It amazes Christoph that Till saw as much. But he supposes that is how he became captain. A leader must be wise, and perceptive. He nods slightly.

“I... You're right.”

Till gives him a slight smile. He then reaches up to wrap his arm around Christoph's shoulders, pulling him into an unexpected embrace. With his chin pressed to Till's broad shoulder, Christoph says nothing. He allows the hug. Till speaks again, quieter, with his hand clenching around Christoph's shoulder.

“Come to me when you're troubled. I've walked the same road, Christoph. I can be your leader beyond just passing out orders. You can talk to me.”

Then he draws away, giving him a faint smile. He pats Christoph on the cheek with a broad hand, while Christoph stares at him with slightly widened eyes. Till nods and then says, “Tonight, we'll relax. We can celebrate here, or if you'd rather have a change of scenery, we can relocate to my home. It's certainly big enough to accommodate us.”

Blinking, Christoph looks at him with surprise.

“We—We couldn't possibly intrude, T. That's your home. It's where you go to... Withdraw from this. From us.”

“No,” Till laughs, grinning now—Christoph stares at it, for as long as it lasts. Till goes on, saying, “No, quite the contrary. While it does get me away from the work, I enjoy your company. You are my brothers. I'm fond of you. It's no intrusion; in fact, it's about time I've invited you. It's decided. We will have the celebration at my place.”

 

* * *

 

He can hear the laughter and conversation emitting from within the living room. Paul is the loudest, naturally, his laughter sharp and constant. He can hear Till's deep voice so clearly, even from where Christoph stands in the bathroom. He's pressing his cold, wet hands over his face, trying to cool himself down.

It's not often he indulges and allows himself to become intoxicated. But laughter is slipping out of him more often than he would like. Paul's affection embarrasses him easily, and the way Till looks at him whenever he smiles or joins the laughter, like nothing could make him more pleased, throws Christoph off. Christoph doesn't like how his control is gradually slipping further and further from his grasp. But he's... Having _fun_. How often does he get to experience that? He doesn't feel like putting an end to it, or distancing himself. While it is flustering, it's not completely unwanted.

It feels _good_. It feels good releasing the plague on his mind, replacing it with laughter and conversation among men he knows, and trusts well.

Drying his hands off on the hand towel, Christoph then leaves the bathroom, re-entering the hallway. The walls are bare as he paces through it, to rejoin the others in the nearly equally sparse living room. The only items occupying Till's living room are a couch, two mismatched armchairs, a coffee table, a TV with a TV stand, a bookshelf, and a stereo. No decoration whatsoever—while he didn't expect Till to exactly be the decorative type, he anticipated more _life_ in his apartment. It's something else he's learned about the other man, at least. Satisfying a very insignificant portion of his expansive curiosity.

“C, c'mon, hurry up!” Paul shouts, gesturing for him to come with spins of his hand. Christoph smiles faintly, amused, and then rounds the couch to plop down beside the other man. Till is on Paul's other side, and Flake has claimed one of the armchairs. Till's hand suddenly curling around the back of Christoph's neck has him pausing. Glancing over, he sees that his arm is resting along the back of the couch. He directs a faint smile Christoph's way and then gestures to the coffee table with a tip of his glass of whiskey.

Averting his gaze to the coffee table, Christoph spots the small pile of white powder, laying among their glasses and the half-empty bottles of booze. A couple lines have been shaped out of it. He arches a brow. Paul laughs and nudges Christoph on the arm, saying, “T pulled it out while you were in there. _Surprise_ , I guess?”

Christoph looks at him with a incredulous expression, though it's gradually replaced with amusement. Paul grins broadly, seeing that expression appear on his face. Till laughs lowly and reaches out to set his glass on the table.

“It's an option,” Till says, fixing his gaze on Christoph's with a smirk on his rugged face, before he turns to the coffee table. Leaning in with a creak of the couch, Till presses a thumb to his nose and sharply inhales a line, which has Paul cracking a laugh and then immediately doing the same as soon as Till sat back again. Till wipes off his nose with brief brushes of his fingers. Christoph snorts when Till pans his gaze over to him, while Paul leans over the table—his eyes are purposefully crossed, his lips curled into a goofy, sarcastic smile. Then Till grins and winks at him. Paul jerks back against the couch like he's been electrocuted, looking stunned, which has Flake smirking slightly from across the coffee table.

“Easy there, tiger,” he says wryly. Paul laughs and then leans over to grab the bottle of vodka. Unscrewing it, he tips it into his cup, letting the clear substance fill a quarter. Setting the vodka back down, he then snatches up the two liter of Sprite. Pulling off the cap, he brings the nozzle to the rim of the cup to even it out. He waggles his eyebrows at Flake, saying with a sarcastic tone of voice past the sloshing of the Sprite, “Don't worry, doctor, I won't O.D.”

Watching Till, Christoph notices that he begins to jiggle his leg up and down slightly. The smile remains on his face, his olive green eyes trained on the giggling Paul. He reaches out to grab his whiskey again, having momentarily forgotten it on the table. Surprisingly, Paul passes the drink he was putting together into Christoph's hands, who takes it with raised eyebrows. Paul winks at him. Christoph eyes him distrustfully as he brings the rim to his lips. He takes a long drink. The bitterness of vodka floods his palate. Paul begins to pop grapes into his mouth from the fruit platter he brought, now nearly empty due to Christoph's constant picking.

“So, C, you know what this means?” he begins, voice muffled by chewed grapes—he continues shoving more into his mouth, his wide eyes trained on the other man. Sipping at his vodka mixture, Christoph looks at him questioningly. Flake and Till watch with smiles on their faces, ready for the bullshit Paul is about to fling at Christoph. Paul continues with a big grin on his face, saying, “You could make up _any_ story you want to impress a girl. It'll be the hot topic, huh? Hell, I'm sure it'll draw in girls by itself. It looks cool. They'll be bustin' their legs open for that shit. You got that 'bad boy' look down.”

Christoph looks at him with a lack of amusement. Paul snorts and asks past the grapes stuffing his mouth completely full, “Too soon?”

“What makes you think I want women?” Christoph remarks, reaching out to set his vodka on the coffee table. Flake speaks up to say helpfully, grinning smugly, “Don't limit him to only women, P! Men will probably be attracted to that look, as well. And who are we to get in the way of that?”

“Oh, _my bad_ ,” Paul laughs, slapping his hand down on Christoph's thigh and squeezing. Christoph rolls his eyes. Till chuckles from the side and downs the rest of his whiskey. Christoph ignores the heat flushing up to his ears and decides to distract both himself and Paul from it by leaning in over the table. It's been quite a long time since he last consumed narcotics. But despite this, he doesn't hesitate to inhale the remaining line of coke, with a whooping, encouraging laugh from Paul. It earns applause from him as well, and then an energetic hand ruffling over his mohawk. He hears Till's deep laughter join Paul's.

Christoph blinks heavily, slapped in the face with the force of the cocaine. He lets out a deep breath, sinking back into the couch. He hasn't _felt_ that in a while.

Wiping at his face with a hand, Christoph glances over to see grins on their faces. Paul is waggling his eyebrows, while Till remains lounging back against the couch, legs crossed and fist propped against his cheek, amusement in his eyes. Christoph stares at them, bewildered by their approval. But, he then decides to take advantage of the moment by giving them a few mock bows, remaining seated, which has the both of them laughing aloud. Even Flake chuckles from where he sat. Christoph twirls his hand sarcastically with a dip of his head, while he says, “Thank you. Snorting cocaine is something I've wanted to excel in for quite a while.”

Laughing hysterically as if that was the funniest shit he's ever heard, Paul falls back against the couch, cracking up with his hands folding over his stomach. Christoph arches a brow, watching him lose his shit with his eyes clenched shut, mouth in a broad grin.

“C, stop!” he gasps in-between his laughter, “I'm going to get abs from laughing so fucking hard!”

“It's not that funny,” Christoph says past a smile. Startling the other man, Paul retaliates by immediately climbing over him, knees on his lap with his hands pressing to his shoulders, pinning him down against the couch armrest as he shouts, “Hey, it fucking is, alright!? I can laugh at you being a fucking dork if I want to! ”

Christoph breaks out with laughter, looking up at Paul with a wide blue eye as Paul grins down at him, keeping him pinned. At the angle Paul had shoved him into, Christoph's legs end up curled atop the couch. He nearly throws Paul off of him and onto the coffee table when big hands grab him by the ankles and _pulls_. He and Paul jerk down the length of the couch, with Christoph's legs ending up in Till's lap. Paul shouts with laughter and clings to Christoph like he's his lifeboat in a roaring storm. Christoph internalizes his flustered laugh and instead he fidgets underneath the smaller man, trying to yank his legs out from Till's firm grasp, but failing to do so.

Till laughs while crawling his fingers up Christoph's calves, which has him bucking wildly—in result, Paul is thrust off him and back onto Till, his head knocking into his bicep before he drops down into his lap. His legs end up draped across Christoph's chest. Laughing, Paul grabs at Till's arm and says past his breathless laughter, eyes fixed up on Till's grinning face, “Hey, T!”

“Hey. Comfy?” Till replies with a low laugh, his broad smile reaching his eyes, revealing his crow's feet. Paul lifts his arms and crosses them underneath his head, against Till's thigh, and nods with a pleased smile on his face. When Till lets go of Christoph's ankles to instead latch his hands onto Paul's sides, Christoph sits up, shoves Paul's legs off of him, and immediately reaches for his vodka, flustered. Paul shouts when Till begins to viciously pinch at his sides through the black sweater he wore, jerking around desperately in his lap—yet helpless to escape considering he is the smallest, and Till is the biggest.

“Fuck you!” Paul breathlessly laughs, wiggling wildly in his lap and attempting to crawl out, but Till just grabs him and pulls him back.

“Till! Stop!” Paul yells, laughing as he presses his hands against Till's face—Till just bites at his fingers. Christoph watches them as he drinks his vodka, eyes narrowing. Paul called him by his full name. Somehow, that bothers Christoph. Watching them, Christoph feels annoyance begin to make an appearance inside of himself, festering.

Flake suddenly rises from the armchair and then rounds the coffee table. Calmly, he turns, and then moves to sit down on top of Paul, in Till's lap. Paul shouts protests, still breathlessly laughing, and presses his hands up against Flake's ass.

“Don't sit your bony butt on me! No!” Paul all but screams, which has Till cracking up, his deep laughter filling the living room. He reaches out, grabbing onto Flake's sides to pull him down onto Paul. Flake lets out a relaxed sigh as he settles on Paul's midsection, placing his hands flatly on his own thighs. Paul punches him square in the side, which has Flake flinching and then subsequently bearing more of his weight onto him. Paul wheezes.

Christoph downs the rest of his vodka. He's feeling a little dizzy. And irritated. He gets up from the couch, and immediately stumbles into the coffee table, knocking over some glasses and sending the half-empty bottle of Sprite rolling onto the floor. He did _not_ expect to be that disoriented. His vision is unsteady. The others stop laughing and wrestling and look over towards the other man. Christoph presses his hands flatly against the coffee table, to avoid stumbling.

“C, are you okay?” Paul asks with a strained voice, laughing lightly. Flake gets off of Paul and reaches out to set a hand on Christoph's shoulder. Christoph drunkenly shoves him away and says, slightly slurred, “Yes.”

“Where are you going?” Till asks, his laughter dying off. Christoph gestures to the hallway, keeping his face turned away.

“Bathroom.”

“Again?!” Paul blurts, which earns a glance over Christoph's shoulder. His blue eye is cold.

“I drank a lot. I have to piss.”

“Here, let me help you get there,” Till says insistently, and then pushes Paul up off of him, onto the other end of the couch where Christoph previously sat. Paul splats atop the cushion and lays there limply. Till gets up and nudges past Flake to curl a hand around Christoph's bicep—Christoph doesn't fight it. Christoph begins to walk out from between the couch and the coffee table with Till behind him. He is _certainly_ unsteady. He could walk if he focused, but everything is tilting strangely at the moment. It's been a while since he's been this drunk.

Till walks him into the hallway, silently. Christoph lets him keep his hand on his arm.

At the bathroom door, Till lets him go, giving him a faint smile and a concerned look. Christoph slaps his hand against the door frame to balance himself. He looks at Till with blank, glassy eyes. Gaze locked on Till's, Christoph lets out a breath and says lowly, “Come in with me.”

Till snorts and crosses his arms.

“What? Do you need me to hold your dick, too?”

“No,” Christoph says, making a slight face with his cheeks flushing, “I need to tell you something. I don't want them overhearing.”

Pausing, Till searches his face. He nods. Christoph nods as well and then turns to step into the bathroom. He turns to face Till again, hands in fists by his sides. Till closes the door behind himself and then looks up at the other man. Christoph's face is hard, his jaw clenched and brow furrowed. Till, searching his tense expression, asks quietly, “What is it, C?”

Through the closed door, they can hear Paul's ringing laughter. Christoph says nothing. He stares at the other man with an unreadable expression, his cheeks hot and blue eye trained on Till's. He steps forward and reaches out to clutch fistfuls of the black button-up he wore. Till stares at him with a furrowed brow. Looking up at him, Christoph notices a couple of his gelled mohawk segments are coming unraveled. The cocaine gives him heightened levels of both desire and courage.

Pushing himself against the other man, Christoph tilts his head and smashes his mouth against Till's. Till jerks back against the door with a thud, both from shock and suddenly bearing the majority of Christoph's weight. Christoph mouths at his lips hungrily, his brow knit and eyes clenched shut. Till's broad hands resting on his back has Christoph relaxing slightly. Till's lips are nice underneath his own—but unresponsive. Till only gives him a gentle purse of his mouth and then draws back slowly, until his head meets the door and their lips separate. He looks at Christoph with an unreadable expression on his handsome face. Christoph cowardly looks down, at his hands clenching fistfuls of his shirt.

“I want you,” he growls, a deep rumble in his throat that he had to _tear_ out of himself to admit, his face in a grimace, “I don't know how or why, but I do. I don't—I don't know what to _fucking_ do or say, T.”

Scared that the moment will shatter, Christoph releases the fistfuls he has of his shirt to run his shaking hands down over Till's wide sides, squeezing almost desperately. He watches himself bring them back up to touch at his chest. He wants to feel his skin. He looks up at Till with a weak expression on his face. Till reaching up to gently grab his hands, clutching them in his own, has Christoph stilling. Till's hands are hot, around his own. Till looks at him silently, eyes calm and lips in a line.

“C, you're drunk and high,” he says, unusually sober considering he is as well, “You should wait to tell me this when you're yourself. When you're coherent. When you can decide whether or not this is what you want.”

Christoph looks up at him with a crushed expression.

“I—I won't have this kind of courage when I'm myself, T. I'm not even myself when I'm myself. Do you understand?” Christoph whispers harshly, teeth bared, his cloudy and blue eyes pained, “I can't reach out like this when I'm sober. I trap myself in my own head. I can't. I can't get out and _away_ from my mind.”

He pauses, exhaling shakily, and clenches his hands into white-knuckled fists within Till's. He continues in a softer voice, eyes averting shamefully, “The fear of what could become of me swallows me whole, whenever I think about being honest. I try so desperately to protect myself, to protect my future, to protect my image. It takes every part of me to meet my own expectations and I _can't stop_. I have to be _perfect_.”

“...You're being honest now. Do you feel like yourself now? Did you dig yourself out of your mind to say this to me, C?” Till whispers, looking at him with a concerned expression, his thumbs stroking over Christoph's hands. Christoph scowls, meeting his gaze again, and snaps sharply, “That is why it has to be said _now!_ I can't peel myself open when I'm coherent! I feel so _repulsive_ , T—I can't stand this moment, right now! I'm _drowning_ in _hatred_ for myself, saying this to you. I just needed you to know, alright? Do what you will with that information.”

Yanking his hands out of Till's grasp, Christoph pushes him out of the way to pull open the door and stride out—albeit drunkenly, with his hand slapping against the wall of the hallway to stabilize himself. Till steps out of the bathroom to follow him, calling firmly, “C, wait! That's not all I wanted to say, damnit!”

“So say what you want to say!” Christoph growls as he stops at the front door, haphazardly grabbing and pulling on his jacket. He leans over, swaying unsteadily a bit, to grab his boots from beside the door. As he steps into them, Till comes striding up, reaching out to grab him by the arm. They're unaware of Flake and Paul watching from the couch, both shocked and silenced. Christoph freezes and pans his gaze up to meet Till's, his face dark and dangerous despite his intoxication. Till leans in close, staring into his blue eye as he murmurs, “I don't want you to disappear. Keep yourself open for me, C. I don't want you to be alone.”

“That's impossible,” Christoph says sharply, shrugging Till's hand off his arm to finish yanking on his boots. Till doesn't relent. He grabs Christoph by the bicep again when he straightens. Christoph growls, but doesn't retaliate. He looks up at Till with shaky eyes. Till trains his gaze on Christoph's. He speaks lowly in a slight slur, though he's attempting to control it.

“I care about you. You can't go.”

“Why do you do this?” Christoph hisses, narrowing his eyes at him, “You're my leader, T. We're working in fucking _organized crime_ together. Why are you treating me like this? I don't know how to act around you, T. You're so... Different from what I've grown accustomed to. I want you to treat me like the goddamn soldier I am. Don't treat me like your brother. It just makes it so much more complicated for me.”

“Because you're not my fucking soldier!” Till shouts with an enraged glare, squeezing his broad hand tightly around Christoph's bicep, which has Christoph stilling and looking at him with wide eyes. Till, realizing his mistake, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, releasing his hold on Christoph's arm. Reopening them, he looks at Christoph and says calmly, “I am not... I am not going to be that kind of leader to you. Not to _any_ of you. You're my partner. All of you are. You are not inferior to me. You're my subordinate, but only in rank. But as a person, you are my equal. I refuse to treat you like you are any less. If that makes it harder for you, then you simply have to adjust. Understand?”

Silence hangs heavily in the living room, broken only by the shifting of ice in Flake's newly poured glass of whiskey. Christoph, jaw clenched, stares at Till with a firm, fiery look in his eye. Then that expression lessens to something weaker—more _frustrated_ than _angry_. He nods almost solemnly, looking down at their feet with a tight frown.

“Yes, I do. To an extent.”

“Good.”

Christoph tenses up when Till steps forward to pull him into a sudden hug, a secure wrap of his muscular arms around his back. Christoph rests his cheek against Till's broad shoulder and heaves a sigh. Sagging against him, Christoph closes his eyes.

It feels good. He feels weightless, held in Till's embrace like this. Despite the festering feelings of disgust twisting in his insides, his mind feels cleared by the hug. The combination of coke and alcohol certainly contributes to that, as well. He weakly returns the embrace. Then Till releases him, pulling back to give him a slight smile. He pats him on the cheek, saying lowly, “Come on. Sit with us, C. We just want to have a good night with you.”

Searching in Till's tired, dilated eyes, Christoph then lets out a breath and looks away, hands clenching into fists. He nods slightly and reaches up to sluggishly draw off his coat, head hung heavily now that the anger has subsided, only to be replaced by the weight of intoxication and emotional exhaustion. Paul and Flake relax on the couch, exchanging glances. Flake presses his lips together with concern, while Paul arches a bewildered brow.

Once Christoph weakly tugs off his boots and steps closer, Till draws a broad arm around his shoulders and guides him back to the small gathering. Paul and Flake give the pair strained, tight-lipped smiles. Flake gets up and awkwardly steps around the coffee table to give the others room. He reclaims his previously taken armchair, while Till and Christoph lower back down onto the couch.

Reaching out to gently grab his wrist, Paul then interlocks their hands together. Christoph smiles very faintly, though it soon fades away. Paul rests his head against his shoulder, stroking his thumb over the back of Christoph's hand affectionately, drunkenly. Christoph reaches out for the bottle of vodka, leaning forward and dismantling the bodily contact to unscrew the cap. Upturning it, Christoph watches the clear liquid splash down into his cup. The other three watch silently, tension thick in the air. Heavily setting the bottle of vodka back down, Christoph grabs his cup and brings the straight vodka to his mouth. Distant eyes training on the ceiling, he takes a long, long drink, impatient to turn his thoughts into static—and hopefully, reduce the memory of this night into nothingness.


	10. Fühlt Ihr Mich?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After years of working together, Christoph and Till have developed a deeper relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "Do you feel me?"
> 
> Warning for graphic smut! Never thought I would step into that territory, but Rammstein tends to come hand in hand with overstepping boundaries. If you're not comfortable with reading that, feel free to skip this chapter. There's nothing pertaining to the plot.

Three years later, Till's apartment is larger. He has artwork on the walls, flowers on windowsills, and more than just necessities in the living room. His kitchen is simple with muted colors and organized counters, used often now that Till has taught himself to cook more, rather than simply order out. The sunlight is often illuminating the apartment, considering he made sure to find a place that has an excess amount of windows.

In his bedroom, there are framed pictures on his dresser. Of the six-man group in celebration, and one of him and Flake. His walls are bare, save for a clock, a wall mounted CD shelf, and a calendar. Within his room, there is a desk positioned underneath his window, a bookshelf, a stereo, and a nightstand with a lamp.

It's certainly more _personalized_ than his last apartment. It's an improvement.

Standing at his dresser, Christoph holds the framed photograph of him and the other five men—they're all smiling. It feels odd, remembering that moment, and how long ago it seemed now.

Christoph turns to Till's bookshelf. He's scanned it many times before, but he's become bored with the photos. He spots the book he had given Till for his birthday; _Moby Dick_ —simply because of two things: it's about hunting, and the woman at the bookstore suggested it. Which he told Till. Till had only laughed and said thank you, fondly. Now, pulling it out of the bookshelf, Christoph can see the pages are worn and wrinkled, probably due to the fact Till has a habit of folding the corners of the pages.

Flipping through it aimlessly, Christoph comes to a stop at the very last page. A picture is taped to it. Squinting at it, Christoph recognizes it. It's [the picture](https://78.media.tumblr.com/c0df6c082c70ab8076aef6361396390f/tumblr_oz3cim1vJp1rvajymo1_400.jpg) Paul had shown everyone because he had managed to get 'photographic proof that he has the ability to smile'. Which had irritated Christoph. There's no sense of privacy with that man.

But, Till having this taped here is interesting. Closing the book, Christoph returns it to its spot just as the door opens. Glancing over, Christoph sees Till standing there, the sleeves to his black, long-sleeved shirt drawn up to his elbows, revealing his muscular forearms that are dotted with droplets of water. The buttons to the collar are undone, revealing a small portion of his chest and chest hair. His hair is in it's usual gelled mohawk. Till steps closer, his hard face lightening slightly. Christoph gazes silently into his tired green eyes as the other man reaches up to cup his face with both broad hands.

Leaning in, head tilted, Till plants a firm kiss to his thin lips. It has something warm flickering in Christoph's chest. Before he could respond, Till leans away again, meeting his gaze. Christoph stares at him. There's a slight smile on Till's lips.

“Thank you for waiting,” he says, “I had forgotten to water them this morning.”

Christoph nods, into his hands.

“It's fine. I saw the picture taped in _Moby Dick_. Care to explain yourself?”

Till pauses, looking at him with surprise in his eyes. He then smirks. Drawing his hands away from his face, Till instead rubs at the back of his neck, his other hand settling on his hip as he says plainly, “It's just where I decided to put it. I don't have photo albums, and it isn't big enough to frame and place on my dresser. It also gives me a reason to pick up the book again.”

Christoph looks at him, his lips pressed together. He nods. Till gives him a faint smile. He then reaches up to hold his face again, with a hand. Christoph has noticed he seems to enjoy doing that. Till brings his thumb up to brush it over his mouth, gently dragging down his bottom lip. Christoph's blue eye is unreadable, gazing at him unwaveringly. Till searches in it, smiling faintly still, and then crosses the meager distance to kiss him again, releasing his bottom lip to curl his hand slowly around his throat. Christoph closes his eye and brings his arm up to wrap it around Till's broad shoulders, fanning his hand out across his shoulder blade. Furrowing his brow, he pulls him in closer, deeply returning the kiss.

The way Till kisses him is gentle and slow; it has Christoph melting slightly. Their mouths move together tenderly in a passionate back and forth that soon steals Christoph's breath away. He pauses when Till hooks his thumbs into the collar of his suit coat, to draw it back and down his arms.

Breaking the kiss, Till stands close to him, dropping his gaze to watch himself undo Christoph's black tie, and then the white shirt, button after button. Christoph, breathing a little hard, looks at Till's face. His eyes are lighter than usual, softening the focused expression on his rugged face. His lips are wet and kissed. Christoph doesn't say anything. Anticipation curls in his stomach, a tingling sensation, but it doesn't show on his face. He waits for Till to pull off his shirt, revealing his pale, scarred skin.

“Do you still want this, Christoph?” Till asks in a murmur, flicking his gaze up to meet Christoph's. Face unreadable, Christoph nods.

“Yes.”

It's not about _this_. It's about _Till_.

He is tempted to say as much, but restrains himself from doing so. Till stroking his broad, calloused hands up his slender sides has Christoph shuddering, his eye becoming slightly lidded. Till notices and smiles faintly. He slowly draws them back down over his sides while leaning in to begin mouthing at his jawline. Closing his eyes, Christoph silently enjoys the sensation of his full lips moving lovingly over his skin. Till's hands slide around to rest on the small of his back, pulling him closer until their bodies connect. Christoph lets out a breath, head tipping back slightly. Till is so warm, so massive, so dominant, and _enveloping_ him. He raises his hands to rest them on Till's biceps—he can feel the tense muscle through the fabric of his shirt.

When Till draws back to study his face, Christoph turns his head away and says quietly, embarrassed, “Keep. Keep doing that.”

After a pause, Till leans back in to continue kissing at his jaw and neck. He mouths his way to his ear, which he, too, kisses and then catches the earlobe between his teeth. Christoph jolts slightly—amused, Till huffs a laugh. Staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes, Christoph is surprised to find himself completely turned on by that. Till then bites gently at his jaw. Christoph's grip tightens on his biceps. Till's hands slide up his back, across scarred skin and dotting birth marks.

“Lay down for me,” Till murmurs into his ear, holding him close to himself. Christoph nods. Till releases him and Christoph steps away, to his queen-sized bed made with deep red covers. Climbing on, he rests back against the pillows, training his cold gaze on Till. Till steps up to the bed and places a knee on the foot of it. Reaching out, he hooks his broad hands underneath the other man's knees and pulls him closer, across the duvet, until his head meets the bed, rather than the pillows. Christoph looks at him with wide eyes and a tense jaw, his elbows digging into the bed with his hands in fists.

Stroking his hands up Christoph's thighs across the sleek fabric of his slacks, Till situates himself closer, his calm gaze fixed on his blue eye as he says lowly, “Relax, Christoph. You don't have to put your guard up around me. You can trust me.”

Staring at him, Christoph says nothing, though he stops clenching his teeth and his hands. He sags back into the bed, watching him with a gentler gaze. Till smiles faintly. He reaches out to take both of Christoph's limp hands in his own—Christoph lets out a breath, trying to relax himself as Till moves to kneel over his hips, straddling him. Till doesn't bear any of his weight on him. Christoph allows it when the other man draws his hands up to press them down against the pillows, above his head. He's familiar with this.

Till pins them down with one of his broad hands squeezing around both of Christoph's wrists. His arms are kept against the pillows, above him. Christoph's gaze is calm and trained on Till's. His face is blank.

Anxiety licks at his chest, kept in a vulnerable position like this. He knows Till has a gun and a knife in his nightstand, and another gun between the mattress and the spring board. There's the window he can escape through, the bedroom door. If necessary, he can twist his wrists out of Till's hold, grab his hand, roll them over, twist his arm behind his back to paralyze the other man. Christoph nearly begins to fade away, desperately considering and reconsidering his escape options, until Till strokes his other hand down over his forearm, across his bicep. It stabilizes Christoph and has his vision clearing, focusing again on the bigger man.

Till's hand slowly, gently descends over his clavicle, down across his flat chest, to caress his heaving belly. He runs that same hand up over a side, and then down the other, his gaze trained on Christoph's face. He strokes his thumb over both nipples, and along every bone in his ribcage. He runs a firm fingertip down from his sternum, all the way to his belly button. Christoph is shuddering by then, his face grimacing slightly and eye closing and reopening, closing again. Till watches him, expression focused.

“Tell me how you feel, Christoph,” he murmurs. Christoph sucks in a breath, eyes fixing on Till's. Opening his mouth, he speaks quietly, “Good. I... Like it when you touch me.”

“Why do you scowl, then?”

“Because,” Christoph begins shakily, looking down at himself, watching his ribcage expand and deflate with his shuddering breaths, “I have to become accustomed to it, every time. It's overwhelming.”

Saying nothing, Till nods. He runs his hand flatly up from his belly, to rest around his throat. Christoph cranes his head back, eyes closing and mouth opening. His heart is racing, his stomach twisting with heat. There's always that surface of fear to break through, but then he's submerged in willingness and euphoria, submitting to Till's control like this. He wants to give himself completely to him. He wants to linger among the lust for more, he wants to sink into the feeling of absolute trust he has for the other man. Till knows him like no one else, and he wants to peel those layers away until Christoph is only himself. Every night like this leaves Christoph feeling naked beyond his skin.

When Till moves off of him, keeping his hands pinned firmly to the pillows, Christoph cracks his eyes open and looks at him weakly. Till is leaning in over his body, kneeling beside him. Christoph stares, wide-eyed, as he mouths at his lower stomach, above his belt, against birthmarks and his light belly hair. Christoph rolls his hips, twisting them away with a slight noise rising out of his throat. Till chuckles and uses his other hand to pin his hips down.

“You're sensitive,” Till murmurs, flicking his amused gaze up to look at Christoph's flushed face. Christoph says nothing, his embarrassment silencing him. Till squeezes his hand gently around his wrists. He leans back in to lick into his belly button with drifts of his tongue. Christoph's stomach clenches. He watches, wide-eyed.

Till's hand slides up over his hip and side while he mouths at his belly. Christoph sags back into the bed, shivering. His hands clench into fists, pinned up high above his head against the pillows. Till kisses slowly at his stomach and midsection while bringing his hand down to begin unbuckling his belt. Christoph's insides twist with excitement, which only serves to fluster him more. He closes his eyes, unable to bear watching purely out of embarrassment. It's not often he's in a vulnerable position like this.

After planting a firm kiss to his skin, Till momentarily releases his wrists to get up from the bed. With his hands resting limply up by his head, Christoph watches the other man work his slacks off his fit legs, revealing the black briefs he wore underneath. Running his broad hands up across his shins and thighs, Till trains his gaze on Christoph's as he squeezes at him gently through his underwear. He's, thankfully, half-hard.

Blinking widely, Christoph shifts atop the bed as he bites his lip, restless with Till's hot hand on him. He sees the faint smile pull at Till's lips. Instead of getting back into position like Christoph expected, Till turns to the discarded clothing on the floor. Propping up on his elbows, Christoph watches him grab his tie. Till moves around the side of the bed, and then takes a seat beside the other man. He looks down at him with softer eyes. Reaching out, he strokes a thumb down Christoph's flushed cheek. He speaks lowly.

“Will you let me restrain you, Christoph? I want to try something.”

Christoph stares at him. He hesitates, the warmth in his stomach gradually replaced with acidic anxiety. He clenches his jaw, his blue eye hard. Till tilts his head, searching his face. Christoph lets out a breath.

“I'm... Willing to... Try,” he says slowly, reluctantly. He wants to trust Till. He knows that being under his mercy excites him, but losing complete control does not. He knows that if he is restrained to the bed, he'll have a much lower percentage chance to escape if necessary. It makes him uneasy. Till gives him a faint smile.

“You can say no. I don't want to ruin this for you.”

Christoph keeps his gaze locked on Till's, his face stony.

“I won't. I will try, for you.”

Searching in his eye, Till contemplates for a moment, and then he nods.

“Tell me if you want me to untie you.”

“Of course.”

Christoph moves to lay back again, while Till scoots closer for a better reach. He lets Till's hands guide his. Till loops the tie around his wrists and then fastens the tie to the headboard, but not securely. Christoph tests the give; it's generous. He feels a little better about that. He can easily slip his hands out, if he really tried. Till strokes his hands down his arms and then sets them down on the bed, supporting his weight when he leans in to kiss Christoph.

Relaxing, Christoph tilts his head to easily return the kiss. Till's lips are nice and warm against his own, moving against his mouth in a slow, intimate back and forth. Christoph's mind and body is taken away from the festering anxiety, replacing it with that lust which had sat in the background until now. He mashes his mouth against Till's, almost hungrily. Till's hand cups the back of his head, sliding up to grab a gentle fistful of his short mohawk, pulling his head back. Till leans up into it, following it and deepening the kiss by sweeping his tongue into his mouth.

Christoph lets out a soft moan, vibrating between their mouths. Till grunts in response, invigorated by the noise. He brings his other hand down to grope firmly at Christoph's flat chest, squeezing hard enough that Christoph shifts and lets out a slight noise. When Till brushes his thumb across his nipple, Christoph's fidgeting is replaced with a shudder. Till's tongue is hot and heavy in his mouth, invading and commanding. He licks at his teeth, his tongue, his palate. Christoph feels like he's being devoured. Before he could become overwhelmed though, Till thankfully breaks the kiss to mouth sloppily at his throat and jaw, which has Christoph melting into the covers.

“You're beautiful,” Till growls, his deep voice running down Christoph's spine. Christoph says nothing, only lets out a shaky, audible exhale. Till's hot mouth descends over his throat, to his clavicle. Christoph feels his mohawk brush over his jaw. It gains an ill-timed hint of a smile from him. Till dipping his tongue into the curve of his collarbone has it falling, replaced by an open-mouthed gasp.

Till's hands squeeze at his sides as his lips lower to his chest—a weak moan crawls from Christoph's agape mouth, barely audible, when Till's mouth passes over his ribcage. He's sensitive there. Till tongues at his nipples, which has Christoph grimacing slightly, pulling at the restraint around his wrists with his fingers locked and shaking. Till's hands stroke up to hold the sides of his heaving ribcage.

“Tell me how you're feeling,” Till murmurs, voice vibrating against his skin. Christoph shudders, exhaling heavily. Till mouths slowly, lovingly at his chest, his stubble scratching at his skin. Christoph lets out a slight noise and snaps his eyes open, lifting his head to watch him, saying lowly, almost breathlessly, “Good. I... Like it when you kiss my body...”

He drops his head back down onto the bed with heat burning in his face, humiliated that he said such a thing. Till hums, pleased. He continues mouthing at his ribcage, and then his nipples. Christoph moans and relaxes back into the bed again. Till's hands are big and warm, cupping his sides perfectly. Eyes closing, Christoph bites his bottom lip between his teeth and soaks in the affection and the kissing as it descends down to his heaving belly. Till kisses over every scar, every birth mark.

The way he's presenting himself so helplessly to Till excites Christoph. The affection and pleasure Till grants him in return contributes to the burning heat coiling in his stomach, a heat that is beginning to swallow him whole. An uneasiness sits in the background of Christoph's mind, born from his restrained position, but the lust and contentment he gains from trusting Till completely distracts him from it.

“Till,” Christoph breathes, feeling his calloused hands slide underneath his back, his mouth against his lower belly. Glancing down with a weak blue eye, Christoph notices a couple of Till's mohawk segments are coming undone, hanging limply down against his heaving stomach. Till's eyes are closed, his full lips pursed against his skin.

It's cute. The corners of Christoph's lips tilt into a slight smile. Till's eyes flicking open and training on his face has it dropping. Till had noticed it though—he smiles, and then withdraws his hands from underneath him. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of his briefs and eases them down—first revealing the neat tuft of dark hair, and then his hard cock that flips up against his stomach. Christoph turns his face into his bicep, his hands clenching into fists. Till removes his briefs entirely, letting them join the floor, before running his broad hands up over his clenched thighs. He looks at his erection; it's average sized, though it's pretty just like the rest of him. Uncut and flushed a delicate pink.

The gentle kisses that Till lays against his thighs and hips has Christoph peeking past his bicep. He watches the other man press his full lips against his pale skin, while drawing his hand in across his heaving belly to curl wide fingers around his shaft. Christoph's body winds up with tension again. Till's hand is big around his length, almost entirely enveloping it with a single hand alone.

He doesn't stroke; he simply grips him while he bites a gentle mouthful of his muscular thigh. Christoph can barely watch. He continues to do so regardless, his face pressed against his bicep, cheeks flushed and brow knit. Till's hand is hot on his cock, fingers rough-textured but squeezing gently. Christoph lets out a shaky, heavy exhale, his chest heaving and legs trembling just slightly under Till. Till kisses his way up his clenched thigh, and then replaces his hand with his mouth.

Christoph sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth when Till's lips mouth at the head of his cock. His thighs jerk reflexively, which has Till's lips curling up into a faint grin, his eyes flicking up to meet Christoph's shy gaze.

“There you are,” Till murmurs, watching him with a smile as he squeezes a tight handful of his shaking thigh. Christoph presses his lips together, his eye filled with a softness and a bashful embarrassment. He watches him presses his lips to his cock again, his beautiful green eyes trained on his as he mouths up the side, to the pink head. He drags his hot, wide tongue across the frenulum of his cock. Christoph shudders uncontrollably, a soft noise breaking out from his throat.

This is humiliating. Deep inside of his mind, the desire to flee licks at his senses like fire, to escape this vulnerable position and hide this part of himself again. But Till is touching _him_. Till is kissing _his_ body, giving _him_ this pleasure. Battling the unease is something like contentment, keeping him rooted and willing. Till taking the head of his cock into his hot mouth distracts Christoph from his creeping discomfort, regardless.

Dropping his head back into the bed, Christoph closes his eyes. Mouth falling open, he moans softly, his body winding with tension as Till applies suction, cheeks sucking in. His hands slowly stroke up over his sides, passing raised scars and goosebumps. They settle on his heaving ribcage, thumbs pressing over his nipples, fingers wrapping around his sides, across wiry muscle. Christoph can't stop shaking. Till's hands are hot and heavy on his slender body, filling him with a warmth with each caress, dissipating the coldness Christoph is accustomed to. He lifts his head again to watch with a dazed expression. Till's intense eyes are fixed on him.

He begins to take him deeper into his mouth, gradually, slowly—Christoph's knee raises reflexively, knocking into Till's side. Ignoring it, Till begins to withdraw, and then dip his head in again and again, his disheveling mohawk pressing into Christoph's skin. Christoph moans and jerks his head back into the bed, his lower half twisting desperately. An incredible explosion of heat bursts in his gut. It spreads through his body rapidly, reaching his toes and his ears. He can barely stand it. Till bears his weight into him, keeping him pinned as he bobs his head repeatedly. His hands squeeze around Christoph's ribcage.

“Till!” Christoph gasps sharply, his body jerking when he takes the entirety of his cock into his mouth, and ultimately, his throat. Flushed face twisting, Christoph fidgets underneath him, becoming overwhelmed by the sensations he seldom feels, even by his own hand. Till, brow furrowed, brings a broad hand down to press it flatly to his stomach, restraining him. He repeatedly takes his pretty cock into his throat, neglecting Christoph's wiggling as he softly moans underneath the bigger man.

Then Till suddenly draws off, sucking tightly until his wet cock slips from his full lips. Sagging back into the bed, Christoph lets out a shaky breath and closes his eyes. Till mouthing sloppily at his thigh and biting at the tense muscle earns Christoph's weak gaze again. Till gropes at his flat belly and then his chest as he retraces the indentations of his teeth with his tongue. Christoph notices that Till's own inner desires are slipping through; he tends to become a bit animalistic during sex. Others might see it as unsettling, but Christoph recognizes it as possessiveness, a desire to claim. And that pleases him greatly, knowing he affects Till this way. He smiles faintly, watching him.

But then Till bites a mouthful of his thigh a bit _too_ hard, which has Christoph wincing, though he makes no pained noise. He knows he'll have a couple bruises in the morning—which, if anything, turns him on. He likes being marked by the other man. Till's broad, calloused hand _squeezes_ firmly around his other thigh, blunt fingernails sinking into Christoph's skin. He bites greedily at his thigh one more time, a growl vibrating in his throat, and then he brings his mouth back to his cock. Christoph's belly twists with arousal, witnessing and feeling this.

A shaky moan emerges from his fallen mouth when he sucks his cock back in between his lips, his dilated green eyes flicking up to meet his gaze as he blows him. Christoph grimaces with pleasure, his hands clenching into fists again, his lower half burning with that indescribable pleasure that is nearing that recognizable apex. Gritting his teeth, Christoph twists his hips slightly, his knee raising again and pressing firmly against Till's side.

An uncharacteristic whine rises out of him, his body jerking almost violently and shaking the bed, his back arching, arms flexing when he tugs at the restraint around his wrists. Till draws off immediately, replacing his hot mouth with a hand that strokes at his wet, flushed shaft. Christoph moans and shakes uncontrollably, his eyes rolling shut as he's swallowed whole by the crashing waves of ecstasy. He's thighs are locked up, his toes clenched, his breath caught.

Ropes of ejaculation shoot out from his angry red cock to sully his heaving belly, the excess dripping down over Till's broad fingers as he continues pumping his hand over his shaft. His other hand strokes and squeezes at Christoph's thigh, feeling it flex and shake under his touch. Christoph moans and fidgets his hips, sensitive and spent. Till lets him go and brings his hand to his mouth. He licks off the cum that clings to his fingers.

“Good boy,” Till murmurs with lustful eyes, a deep rumble in his chest. Christoph shudders and weakly opens his eyes to look at the ceiling. Till's hands stroke up over his sides, and across his arms, the bigger man shifting closer across the bed to reach the tie restraining his wrists to the headboard. He silently unravels the knot and gently clutches Christoph's wrists to lower his arms. Christoph looks at him dazedly, his face slackened and flushed. Till smiles down at him, faintly.

“Why are you still dressed?” Christoph asks softly, and then clears his throat. He presses his hands to his face, letting out a deep breath, and then trains his blue eye on Till past his fingers. Till huffs a laugh.

“I had been focused on you, but that can be taken care of now.”

He grabs onto his black shirt and pulls it off of himself, revealing his hairy chest and belly. Christoph smiles faintly, dropping his hands from his face to watch him. His chest is firm, his ribcage lined with muscle. His hairy stomach is soft. Reaching out, Christoph places his hand against it, feeling his body hair tickle his fingers. Till watches his smiling face as he unbuckles his belt and then undoes his jeans. Christoph runs his hand up from his soft belly, across the valley of hair to rest over his heart. Till stops undressing to clutch his hand. He brings it to his lips and kisses it firmly, eyes closing. His facial hair brushes against his knuckles. Christoph's smile grows. Till presses a few more kisses to his fingers and then lets go to stand from the bed.

He steps out of both his pants and underwear, revealing his thick, unruly pubic hair and erection—as well as the massive, grotesque scar enveloping his knee and lower thigh of his right leg. Christoph, flustered, doesn't know where to stare, so he just runs his gaze up from his beautiful cock, across his hairy chest, to look at his handsome face as he climbs back onto the bed. Till is smiling, very faintly. He lays beside Christoph, propped up on an elbow. Reaching out, he cups his hand around his cheek, forearm resting on his chest. He gazes down at Christoph's open expression with a subtle fondness in his eyes. He glances between his cloudy and blue eyes.

Invigorated by the touch, Christoph turns towards the other man, reaching out for him. Till accommodates him in his arms, allowing him to cling to his broad body while wrapping his muscular arms around the smaller man. Their legs slide together, with Christoph's slender arms winding up around Till's wide back, hands resting over his shoulder blades. He rests his cheek against Till's collarbone; his short mohawk presses against his jaw. Till huffs a slight laugh—they end up rather tangled, with Christoph laying partially on top of him.

Shifting, Christoph slides his knee between Till's thick, muscular thighs, while lifting his head from his chest to meet his gaze. Till looks at him with calm eyes, a subtle smile on his face. Christoph stares at him, searching his face, with a bright warmth blooming and curling in his chest, down to his stomach. It feels unfamiliar. He feels light. Content. Comforted. Wanted.

Happy.

Smiling, Christoph leans in, head tilted, and kisses him softly. Till flattens his calloused hand over the curve of his spine, holding him as he kisses him back. Their lips move in a slow, tender back and forth, the sounds of the kiss filling the bedroom. Christoph jerks when Till's broad hand slides down over his back to squeeze a firm handful of his ass. Till chuckles against his mouth.

He bites Christoph's bottom lip between his teeth, smirking. Cracking open his eyes, Christoph finds Till's looking back at him. He lets Till roll his lip between his teeth, watching him with lidded eyes.

Then Till tilts his head, leaning back in to kiss him firmly, clutching at his back. Christoph feels him shift closer; his hard cock slides up against his hip, which has Christoph making a noise into the kiss, flustered. Christoph digs his nails into Till's shoulder blades, furrowing his brow as he attempts to keep up with his eager kissing.

Breaking away, Till then mouths sloppily at his jaw, which has the other man tilting his head back willingly.

“I love you,” Till murmurs against his skin, wrapping his muscular arm tightly around the middle of his back, hand tucking underneath his side. Christoph freezes, his heart seizing. He grows stiff in his arms, his face hardening. Anxiety and blackness crashes over him like a wave that has been waiting to drown him ever since this began. The walls rebuild themselves, immediately surrounding him again.

“No, you don't,” Christoph states flatly, his heart pounding, stomach twisting. Till hums and places a kiss against his neck, before drawing back and meeting his gaze. Christoph's insides knot with panic. He looks into Till's eyes silently, face unreadable. Till plants a soft, chaste kiss against his brow, and then presses their foreheads together.

“I do. You mean very much to me.”

Silence hangs thickly between them, with Christoph looking down, towards their connected bodies. He stares at Till's broad body, the dark hair, the scars, the muscle. Being held against it like this is... Warm. Wholesome. He feels connected beyond the physical sense. Somehow, the longer he contemplates it, the more it becomes believable. The detest he holds for himself battles that, his belief that there is no part of him worth loving, or possible to love.

But here he lays, holding _him_. Embracing _him_ , kissing _him_ , touching _him_. There's absolutely nothing separating them—they're flesh to flesh, skin to skin, soul to soul. Christoph, teeth grit, feels something unusual burning behind his eyes. He shakes his head once, growling, and then jerks a hand up to slap it over his face, nails digging into his cheeks and forehead.

“Hey, hey,” Till whispers, reaching up to gently grasp his wrist, drawing his hand from his face. He's alarmed to see tears simmering in Christoph's eyes. He looks enraged, disturbed, brow knit and eyes confused. Till's face hardens slightly, his brow furrowing, lips curling into a concerned frown. He draws his arm around Christoph's back again, pulling him against his chest. Christoph hides his face in his neck, his fists resting against Till's stomach, his nails digging into his palms.

“I didn't mean to upset you,” Till murmurs, stroking his hand over his back. Christoph shudders. He doesn't say anything for a long moment, but when he does speak, it comes out rough and raw.

“I love you, too. So _much_ , I can't even bear it,” Christoph gasps, and then a humiliating, accidental sob crawls from his grimacing mouth, teeth locked and bared. Till holds him tighter, tucking his cheek against Christoph's head.

“I hate my inability to function,” Christoph growls, his voice thick and eyes wide, “I just—I want it to be easy to _feel_. It feels so wrong, so foreign to be wanted like this. It's hard for me to accept it easily, Till. I'm accustomed only to hatred and being used.”

Realizing how ridiculous he's being, saying these things while they're in bed, Christoph shuts his mouth. Instead, he unfurls his clenched fists and flattens them gently against Till's midsection. He feels his warmth seep into him through his hands, through their tangled legs, through Till's arms that are wound around him. Letting out a breath, Christoph closes his eyes and forcefully kicks down the walls trapping him in. He lets the comfort of Till's embrace replace the bitter poison festering inside of him.

“I'm sorry,” Christoph says lowly, “Forget it. I'm only souring this.”

“It's alright,” Till murmurs. He tucks his chin to kiss him on the temple. He continues, speaking softly by Christoph's ear, “I'm glad that you are able to be honest with me. You can talk to me about it, Christoph, even if we are laying like this. I'm here only for you.”

Shuddering in his arms, Christoph nods slightly. He runs his hands up over Till's chest, his body hair tickling his skin as his touch wanders. He cups his jaw and then lifts his head to look at him. Till's face is calm, his eyes searching Christoph's. (Silently, Till admires his mellow eyes, both cloudy and beautiful blue, his prominent cheekbones, his pretty thin lips, his strong nose.)

“Let me try again,” Christoph murmurs. Hands sliding up to hold the sides of Till's face, fingers over his ears, thumbs resting over his cheeks, Christoph tilts his head to kiss him. Till closes his eyes and gladly returns it, the purses of his lips gentle and loving. Christoph moves his mouth against Till's chastely, tenderly, and then slowly draws back, opening his eyes to look into Till's again. A faint smile curls at his kissed mouth. He draws his thumb over Till's full lips, searching in his deep green eyes as he whispers, “I love you, Till. More than anyone now, more than anyone in the past.”


	11. Ich Will Die Ruhe Stoehren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard and Paul finally find some stable ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "I want to break the silence"
> 
> I'm running out of applicable Ich Will lyrics for the titles LMAO

The ominous music of _Doom_ 's soundtrack and tapping of the controller's directional pad fills the living room. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Paul is entirely enveloped in the video game, leaning forward with a focused expression on his face. Only when there's a knock on the door does his concentration break. With a sigh, Paul pauses and plants his hand back on the coffee table for stability as he rises.

Approaching the door with slight strain, Paul reaches out to unlock it and pull it open. He's greeted by the sight of Richard, holding two coffees—one is kept pinned to his chest with his unusable hand. He's not wearing the typical suit; instead he's flaunting sunglasses that make him look like a tool, a simple black shirt, and jeans. Leaning against the door frame, Paul eyes him. Richard extends his right hand, holding out a coffee, with an arched brow.

“One cappuccino with _extra_ milk, for the picky princess.”

“R, you're supposed to be at the office,” Paul remarks, unamused. Richard shrugs, saying, “I _was_ at the office. T told me 'my presence wasn't necessary'.”

“I'm sure C loved that,” Paul muses, a sly smirk pulling over his lips. Richard huffs, shifting foot to foot impatiently.

“Oh, he would've, if he was there. Look, are you going to let me in or what?”

Nodding, Paul steps aside, holding the door open. He sarcastically sweeps his arm out, dipping his head. Richard purposefully nudges his lowered head with his bicep as he enters, ruffling his hair; Paul reaches out to pinch him in the side in return, though Richard isn't ticklish so he just throws an amused smirk back towards the other man. Paul shuts the door and locks it, watching Richard round the couch to set both drinks on the coffee table.

“Gotta piss,” he says, and then steps out of the living room and into the hallway. Paul watches him depart, and then makes his way to the couch. He flops down atop it, looking at the capped coffee cups; one is labeled with a 'P', another with an elegant 'R'. An image of Richard flirting with the barista who made these for him pops up in Paul's head—only because he's witnessed it firsthand. Reaching out, he grabs his drink and brings it to his lips.

Warily, he takes a sip. It doesn't burn his tongue, so he takes a longer drink, eyes closing with pleasure. He hears the bathroom door reopen. Paul lowers the coffee cup from his mouth, licking his lips, as Richard reenters the living room, sliding his sunglasses up over his head. He moves between the coffee table and the couch to take a seat beside the other man.

Paul watches him grab his own coffee and take a drink, while resting his arm along the back of the couch behind Paul.

“Why the coffee?” Paul says, earning a glance from green eyes. Richard shrugs, reaching out to set his back on the table—leaning in, his arm rests against Paul's back momentarily.

“Couldn't just invite myself without a peace offering,” he explains, running his tongue between his lips as he settles back against the couch, settling his gaze on him. Paul stares at him, unconvinced.

“What makes you think you need a peace offering? I would've let you in either way,” he states. Richard arches a brow at him.

“Do I need a reason to get you coffee? Maybe I was just getting some for myself and thought 'hey, maybe Paul would appreciate something'.”

“Or,” Paul begins, eying him with a tilted smile forming on his lips, “You thought 'Man, maybe if I buy Paul enough coffees, he'll be totally seduced by my charm and let me get in his pants. He sure does love those cappuccinos.'”

Richard frowns, narrowing his eyes at him. Paul grins, and then laughs. He reaches out to squeeze Richard's thigh before withdrawing his hand, looking at him with amusement as he says, “I'm kidding! Thanks for the coffee.”

To accentuate his appreciation, he takes another drink and then rises from the couch. Richard speaks up then, snapping, “Why do you assume sex is all that's on my fucking mind? Why do you have to make this a big _fucking_ deal?”

Grabbing one of the couch pillows, Richard chucks it at Paul's feet. Startled, Paul stops and looks at him with raised eyebrows.

“Are you in a sour mood or something? I said I was kidding.”

Jaw clenched, Richard stares back at him with irritation in his gaze, his hands in defensive fists by his sides. Paul lets out a breath, sighing, and looks away as he says calmly, “You wouldn't be able to even recall how many times you've ditched us to hook up at a bar or club. So, yeah, sometimes I wonder if that's all you care about. But that's not what it was even about. I was just fucking around. You should be able to handle taking a fucking joke, R.”

Sitting back down atop the blankets he had situated on the floor, Paul sets aside his coffee and grabs his controller to resume the game. The sound effects and music of _Doom_ then proceed to replace the tense silence. Paul can feel Richard's eyes burning into the back of his head, but he ignores the other man in favor of returning to his distraction. He doesn't need Richard's negative attitude today, so he'll either have to get over it, or fuck off.

The silence between them stretches on, and continues to, for a long five minutes. Paul's own agitation begins to steadily rise, the longer Richard refuses to say anything. Only when he's on the verge of telling Richard to get the hell out does the other man finally speak, in a low mutter barely audible past the noise of the game.

“Listen, P... I haven't. I haven't really... Fucked around since you got shot,” he says, which has Paul tensing up. He stops progressing in the game, though he keeps his gaze trained on the TV. Richard goes on with a slight sigh, fingers fidgeting with the lining of the arm rest, “I know you probably don't give a shit, but it... Was never a priority of mine. I haven't done any coke either. That shit became so unimportant after I was faced with you nearly _dying_. And... Well, you are the only thing on my mind right now. As in, I'm concerned about you. Not concerned with getting in your fucking _pants_ , but concerned about you actually being alive.”

“So you're blaming me for taking away your fun?” Paul says, tone unusually calm with his hands clenched around the controller. Richard frowns, brow knitting.

“Fuck no! I'm saying that what happened is making me realize there's more than just drugs and sex. I don't need that shit anymore.”

“And then when I'm fine again,” Paul begins sharply, gaze fixated on the screen, his back to Richard, “You'll get bored and want a distraction from your general hatred, so you'll dive right back into coke and fucking. I know your level of self-restraint, R.”

Richard lurches up from the couch then, earning Paul's hard eyes. Throwing his hand up, Richard snarls with a curled lip, “Yeah, because I just fucking told you, you asshole! Two fucking months, and nothing! You think this hasn't been a healing process for me, too?”

Paul stares at him with a deep frown. Watching the other man with his hands in fists, Richard is nearly shaking with his anger. Paul speaks lowly, his brow furrowed.

“And? Should I be _happy_ that you've abstained from it because I got _shot?_ What is that supposed to prove to me? I don't care whether you do that shit. It's not my business.”

He's surprised to see Richard's enraged expression soften to something tense and slightly despondent. He had anticipated an explosion, not a deflation. Richard sighs and brings a hand up to rub it down over his face, and then lifts it in a weak gesture as he says with confusion in his green eyes, “I don't know. That that isn't all I care about. That I can be better than what you think of me. But, whatever, I guess. It doesn't seem to make a difference to you.”

Then Richard shoves his way out from between the coffee table and the couch towards the front door, jostling the couch as he goes.

“Richard, wait,” Paul snaps, voice raised. He begins to get up, but before he could stop him, Richard yanks open the door while growling, “Go fuck yourself!”

He slams the door so hard behind himself, the keys hanging on a hook by the door fall off with a noisy clatter. Paul scowls, irritated that he would rather walk out than work whatever that bullshit was out. He sighs and then flops back down on the mound of blankets. Running a hand up through his short hair, Paul stares at the ceiling with a frustrated expression. He lays there for a few minutes in silence, contemplating, before dropping his gaze to his neglected coffee cup that stood beside him on the carpet. Pausing, Paul then cranes his head back into the blankets to look towards the coffee table—the elegant, written 'R' stares back at him.

“You forgot your coffee, moron,” he mumbles, rolling his eyes.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Paul is bothered with persistent thoughts.

At first, he had been reluctant to believe Richard's claim—that maybe it was just a lie to make him seem more likable in Paul's eyes. For whatever reason he may have to attempt that. But Richard is not known to be deceiving. So why would he lie about that, especially when he isn't timid when it comes to his consumption habits?

In addition to that, Paul has come to realize two months is actually quite a long time for him. Paul is familiar with Richard's obsession with distraction from his self-hatred, only because the man has confided in him before, and he's witnessed it many times in the past. Richard isn't one to hold back on indulgence.

But Richard _wanted_ to change. For himself? Absolutely not. He does _not_ have a tendency nor the desire to engage in self-care—he'd rather engage in self-destructive activities. Rather than seek rectification for himself for the sake of simply being happier, he wanted _Paul_ to think better of him.

More than anything, it makes Paul feel conflicted, and slightly uncomfortable. Richard shouldn't have that desire to improve for the sole purpose of impressing or pleasing another person. He should have that desire for the sake of his own health, both mental and physical. It shouldn't be about someone else. Even so, it does make him feel somewhat touched, as well. For _once_ , Richard is making a sacrifice for someone else. He's trying to make _others_ happy. And not just for anyone, but for _him_.

He isn't sure how to really absorb this realization, nor what he should do with it. So for now, he just waits for Richard's inevitable return. Or, if not that, for himself to eventually return to work to confront the issue. Either way, it'll work out. Richard, even if short-tempered, is quick to forgive.

 

* * *

 

Or so he thought. Three days have passed since their argument, and Paul has yet to receive a visit, nor a phone call. Paul is on the verge of dialing up Till and asking if Richard has been around, but refrains from doing so for the sake of his own pride. Instead, he distracts himself with sleep, reading, and video games, until he starts to get a little restless. He truly hates the recovery period for significant injuries like this, which he _has_ faced before, only because he wants to go and _do_ , rather than sit and _wait_.

He picks up the phone about ten times, ready to dial Richard's number with an apology on his tongue, but before he could commit to it, he decides Richard needs the space.

 

On the fifth day, Paul is going through the routine of his physical therapy exercises on a mat atop his bedroom floor when he hears knocking on the front door. Sighing with irritation, he gets up with a strained expression. He grabs his shirt from his bed and pulls it back on before making his way out to the living room.

Reaching the door, he unlocks it and draws it open to see Richard standing there. His heart shoots up into his throat. He stares at Richard blankly. Richard looks tense, his brow knit and eyes hidden behind those fucking sunglasses again. He's wearing a black button-up, open at the collar to reveal a black shirt underneath. He's carrying something. Staring at it, Paul can only determine two things: it's a bowl-shaped plastic container, and he can't see what's inside of it. He doesn't say anything. Richard opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. Paul sighs, rolling his eyes, and then steps aside. Richard presses his lips together and then paces in.

Shutting the door behind him, Paul watches him pace into the kitchen. He sets the container down, and then takes off his sunglasses. He silently stands at the counter, folding his glasses one-handed and then slowly placing them atop the plastic container. He turns to look at Paul, crossing his arms loosely with an uncertain expression on his face.

Paul looks at him expectantly. Letting out a breath, Richard then speaks, breaking the silence.

“Let me take you out on a walk.”

Pausing, Paul's tense expression becomes confused and then incredulous.

“Why?”

“Because I want to go on a walk with you?” Richard remarks, barely withholding the sarcasm in his voice. Paul searches his face, a little baffled. He supposes Richard wants to talk. That's fine. That's what Paul wants. He easily relents, answering with a level tone, “Sure. Let me shower first.”

Richard says nothing. He just nods, watching Paul with a set jaw and dubious eyes. Paul turns and begins towards the bathroom, ignoring the anxiety in his stomach.

He doesn't spend long in the shower. He just wanted to get the sweat off of himself.

Once he's out, he dries off, wraps the towel around his waist, and exits the bathroom to reenter his bedroom. As he redresses into loose-fitting black jeans, he eyes the tender, pink scar of the gunshot wound. It had healed over a while ago, though it is still rather unsettling to look at. He finishes pulling on the jeans, feeling uneasy.

He slips on a belt, and then grabs a [long-sleeved mint colored shirt](https://78.media.tumblr.com/47bd497872e3af7be899d1d977f64821/tumblr_ozvp1ewX2C1rvajymo1_540.jpg) from his closet, which he puts on. Snatching his black beanie and sunglasses from the surface of his dresser, he glances up towards the mirror that hangs above it. He needs to shave. He's developing a bit of a beard. He rubs his hand over his cheeks, feeling the scratch of his facial hair, and then sighs. After casting a sour look towards his gnarly burn scar, he averts his gaze from his reflection.

Grabbing his silver ring from the surface of the dresser, he slips it on a finger before yanking open the door and stepping out.

Pulling his beanie on over his damp hair, Paul reenters the living room to see Richard seated on the couch, legs crossed with a cigarette burning between his fingers, his gloved hand resting in his lap. He looks up at Paul, and stares. Crossing his arms, Paul arches a brow at him. Richard smiles faintly, eying him up and down.

“Well, lead the way,” Paul speaks up, gesturing to the front door. Richard nods and rises from the couch. He takes a final drag from his cigarette as he paces back into the kitchen, putting it out in the sink before tossing the butt. Then he grabs the plastic container, as well as a spoon from Paul's kitchen drawer.

“What are you bringing?” Paul asks, watching him incredulously. Richard shushes him, looking towards him with a faint smirk on his face.

“You'll see. Come on.”

“I have no clue what it could possibly be,” Paul says as he follows him to the door, “I mean, you bringing a spoon doesn't narrow down the possibilities at all.”

He grabs his boots and tugs them on, zipping them up one at a time while directing a sarcastic smile at Richard. Richard watches him silently, unamused. Paul straightens up, fixes his beanie, and then reaches out to snag his keys off the hook by the door. He reaches past the other man to unlock and push open the door; Richard strides out, leaving behind Paul who takes a second to lock up before hurrying after the other man.

 

The sun is blinding in the sky, and has Paul squinting. He then recalls that he did indeed bring his sunglasses. He unhooks it from the collar of his shirt and then slips them on with a pleased smile on his face. Richard is silent beside him, walking with him down the street, passing apartment buildings along the way—some miniature balconies of these buildings are decorated with flowers, which add a nice aesthetic to the pastel colored exteriors. Trees [line the sidewalk](https://78.media.tumblr.com/db79af1acd8904aa83e07c2a417d16d4/tumblr_ozitmzHwaW1rvajymo3_1280.png), shadowing them as they cross under. People pass them on bikes, as do others with dogs. Paul walks beside Richard with a smile, despite the underlying uneasiness that sits in his chest.

Richard was never one to force small talk, so they walk silently. Paul is fine with that, even if the urge to fill that silence picks at him. He restrains himself from asking where they're going; he has a pretty good idea. Richard reaches into his pants pocket then, earning Paul's attention. He withdraws his cigarette pack and flips it open, before raising it to his mouth to take the filter of one of the cigarettes between his lips. He then returns the pack to his pocket, and replaces it with a lighter.

Flicking the flame to life, Richard ignites the cigarette. Paul watches with his smile weakening.

Eventually, after the fifteen minute walk, they cross the street to approach the park's entrance—the destination Paul expected. They've come here before, quite a few times.

Trees decorate the slopes of grass, beyond the parking lot. [A large pond](https://78.media.tumblr.com/5b042b5a4c271f146a2954f0a4d9b68d/tumblr_ozitmzHwaW1rvajymo5_1280.jpg) sits in the center of the park, surrounded by wrought iron fence. In another part, there's a cafe with outside tables. A small building decorated with overlapping graffiti, sitting in an expansive grassy area with encroaching trees. There's beautiful architecture, surrounding a wide, endless fountain. An elevated viewing deck, a narrow creek with small overlapping bridges and boulders, and winding pathways broken only by nature.

Richard immediately leads him to the expansive pond, circled by trees, pathways, and people. Paul just follows the other man, his arms crossed, a smile on his face as he absorbs their uplifting surroundings. Richard hasn't said a word, and Paul doubts he will until they're situated.

Despite the tension, it's nice that they're here on a sunny day. Being stuck at his flat had begun to feel claustrophobic. His leg still becomes numb or aches when he walks, but he doesn't get quite as exhausted anymore, nor so soon. It feels good, getting out and around again. The smile lingers on his face.

Richard brings him to one of the benches lining the wrought iron fence. The other benches are empty, though Paul knows they'll be claimed soon enough. It's not the busiest day this park has had, but there are plenty of people. With a sigh, Richard takes a seat and fixes his gaze on the still water, crossing his legs. He sets the sealed bowl-shaped container between them, as well as the spoon, to draw his sunglasses up over his head. He admires the pond and the willow trees that hang low over the shimmering water, as if they're gossiping to the passing swans. Paul gets comfortable beside him, relaxing back against the slats of the bench as he recrosses his arms.

“It's been a while since we've been here,” Paul muses, grinning slightly with a furrowed brow, “It's nice. Kinda wish I brought a book.”

“Since when do you read?” Richard remarks, already smirking before he had even gained a response. Paul reaches out to bat the back of his hand against his bicep. Richard grins and looks over at him. Paul is smiling, his laughing lines accentuated—his eyes remain hidden behind his sunglasses.

“It's not like that's all I've been doing since I've been stuck at home. So why are we here? Just to enjoy the scenery?”

The grin on Richard's face softens to a tight-lipped smile. He scratches at the back of his head nervously and then grabs the mysterious plastic container to hold it out to the other man. Eyebrows raising, Paul hesitates before reaching out to take it. Richard watches him with squinting eyes and a strained smile—probably from the sun. Paul curls his fingers into the lip of the lid to pop it off. Glancing down towards the contents of the bowl, he pauses.

Inside is [Rote Grütze](https://78.media.tumblr.com/c5fa21b5a7cfc990e45bd5793077e7b0/tumblr_ozitmzHwaW1rvajymo4_1280.jpg)—red fruit jelly. The glossy, crimson jelly is thick in consistency, decorated with a thick swirl of vanilla cream. The cream is topped with an excess amount of elegant chocolate shavings, accompanied by redcurrants. Paul, astonished, stares down at the pretty presentation of the dessert with widened eyes. Reaching up, he draws his sunglasses up over his head to see the colors more clearly. The vibrant red contrasts nicely with the white cream and the decorative twirls of chocolate shavings. He smiles warmly, and then looks up at Richard again.

A slight grimace is on his face—the “oh God, this was fucking stupid” face that Paul is quite familiar with. Paul nearly laughs, but manages to repress it by biting his bottom lip, his lips curled into a broad smile. Letting out a breath, Richard then speaks, saying lowly with a lackluster lift of a hand, “I know you like that shit. Uh. I made it. I didn't just buy it, or anything.”

Searching his embarrassed expression, Paul's smile extends to a grin. He nods, silver hoop earrings shaking with the motion, and then looks back down at the pudding. He doesn't know what to say. Richard continues regardless, quietly.

“Listen, Paul. I'm sorry for, y'know, being a shithead. I will probably say that a million more fucking times, since I never seem to learn. But, I just...”

He trails off, and then raises his hand to rub at his face with frustration. Paul's expression sobers, waiting for him to go on. Fingers curled over his eyes, thumb against his temple, Richard sits there silently, debating. Meanwhile, despite the tense moment, Paul can't help but notice he painted his nails black. It's cute. He smiles again, faintly.

Richard sighs and then goes on to say with his eyes remaining hidden behind his hand, voice steady albeit slightly rushed, “I told you about that shit—about me ' _abstaining_ '—because... I want to be better... _For_ you. Not _to_ you, like I said. I... God. This is _stupid_.”

He jerks his hand down, gesturing with irritation as he snaps, his face flushed and embarrassed, “I don't know what to say, alright! I just want you to think better of me! Because I-I guess... I want you to feel for me... Like how I feel about you. I want to be _more_ in your eyes, beyond just a helpless asshole who you're stuck with.”

He then leans forward to bury his face in his hands, elbows on his knees. Paul watches him with raised eyebrows and a faint smile that becomes amused. Richard sits like that for a long few seconds, sighing heavily into his palms, and then drops his hands to look at the other man with a red face. Paul's smile extends into a grin, his crow's feet appearing. Richard scowls.

“Don't look at me like that. I'm embarrassed enough already.”

Paul reaches out to pat him on the back.

“Sorry. You're just acting really cute.”

“ _Cute?_ The fuck? I could kick your ass again for calling me that, P. Christ.”

Laughing aloud, Paul suddenly leans forward to knock his forehead against Richard's shoulder—laughing still. Richard stiffens. Paul's laughter softens, and then eventually dies. He doesn't move away, he just smiles, forehead pressed to his shoulder. Hesitating for a moment, Richard then reaches up to rest his hand over the back of his neck, curling his fingers into the lip of his beanie—his rings are cool against Paul's skin. It nearly has him flinching. A heat blooms in Paul's face.

They sit in silence. The distant, combined noises of talking birds, conversation, the lapping of water, and the rustling of the tree leaves surround them. They remain like that until Paul sighs and speaks lowly, eyes downcast to Richard's lap, “I don't see you as a helpless asshole who I'm stuck with. I think you're careless sometimes, about some things, but you do _care_ about people—even C. You try to act like you don't give a shit, but I can tell how much you value the others. And I mean, you did spend like, a month caring for me—whether blaming yourself was the reason for that or not, you did, when you didn't have to. You've always had my back. Even when I got shot, you were there to... To save my life. So. I don't think you're a bad person. Asshole, maybe. Sometimes. But not all the time. Being an asshole isn't always a terrible thing, anyways. Most people are.”

He shakes his head against Richard's shoulder, realizing that he's rambling on mindlessly again, and then sits back against the bench. With his face hot, Paul stares down at the red pudding, feeling Richard's gaze on him. He goes on to say quietly, cowardly keeping his eyes downcast as he runs his thumb along the rim of the bowl, “I mean. I'm not quite sure my, uh... _Feelings_ are quite as... Strong? But I do often think about... Doing romantic things. I guess. I don't know. It's hard to just go out with it, you know? I don't have the same confidence you do when it comes to these sorts of things. Girls usually came to me first, so it saved me the trouble of figuring out how to go about it.”

He peeks over at Richard. Richard is watching him with a softer look in his eyes, though his lips are pressed firmly together. Paul gives him a faint smile. Richard nods, his frown replaced by a weaker smile. They sit in silence for a moment, taking in what's been said. The atmosphere is tense again, but it's that sort of tension accompanied by a strange anticipation—for _what_ , exactly, is kept unknown. Then, breaking the moment, Richard reaches between them to grab the spoon. He holds it out to Paul.

“Eat your fucking pudding,” he says, smirking faintly. With a laugh, Paul grins and takes the spoon from him. Wielding the utensil, he looks back down at the prettily decorated dessert and sinks the spoon into the vanilla cream. He makes sure to get a redcurrant and a few twists of chocolate shavings. Taking the spoonful into his mouth, he lets the taste explode across his tongue, and then he exclaims with shock, blurting past the mouthful, “This is really good! What the hell, Richard?”

Looking at the other man with an astonished expression, Paul licks his lips and then goes in for another spoonful. Richard drapes his arm along the back of the bench behind Paul, recrossing his legs comfortably with a smile on his face. Beside him, Paul hums with pleasure as he lets his palate absorb the bitterness of the jelly, complimented by the sweetness of the vanilla cream and chocolate.

“You're the first person I've made that for in a few years. Think of it as a special occasion,” Richard says, watching the other man fondly. Paul stops shoveling it into his mouth to refocus on Richard. He licks his lips again, smiling.

“Thank you. You really didn't have to. I would've accepted your apology either way.”

“Like I said,” Richard remarks with a grin, leaning in towards him as he continues, “ _Special_.”

Paul huffs a laugh when Richard draws his arm around his shoulders. Pulling him in closer, Richard boldly leans in to press a brief, albeit intimate kiss to his temple. When Richard draws back again, looking at him with a smile, Paul grins, eyebrows raised, and muses past a laugh, “That was pretty gay.”

The smile on Richard's lips is replaced with an embarrassed frown. Paul immediately regrets what he said, his own face falling—he didn't want the smile to go away. Richard narrows his eyes at him, cheeks warm.

“Shut up. Do you want me to take the fucking pudding back?”

“N-No!”

When Paul twists away, curling protectively around the bowl, Richard's frown becomes pursed with his attempt to withhold his smile, though it shines through regardless.

 

On the walk back to his place, Paul is the one to carry the spoon and plastic container this time. The sun is still out, hanging high above them and bathing them in a warmth. The breeze is light, running through their hair and caressing their skin. Paul feels serene, walking with the other man down Kniprodestraße, passing vibrant trees that cast dotted shadows over them as they stroll underneath their extended leaves. Richard is silent, but no longer with tension. He seems content. Glancing over at him, Paul can see the faint smile curling at the corners of his mouth, his eyes lacking that typical agitation.

Something warm and kind curls in Paul's chest. An urge to touch Richard tingles in his fingertips. He reaches out boldly, eyes downcast to watch himself take Richard's hand. He simply grabs it at first, panics blindly for a second (What now? Should he hold it like this, or should he make it more romantic? Would Richard want to even do this, in public?) and then just decides, fuck it, and threads their fingers together. Shakily, Paul fixes his gaze forward again.

Beside him, Richard falters slightly—in his peripheral vision, Paul can see him turn his head to look at him. After a bated moment, Richard squeezes his hand faintly. Paul's face begins to burn. He just _knows_ Richard is smirking. Probably so damn smug that he was the one that made the first move. Peeking over at him, he's surprised to find that not only is he not smirking, he's biting his lip with a flustered expression in his eyes. He looks over to meet Paul's glance that wasn't quite as subtle as he hoped.

Paul averts his gaze, brow furrowing. His heart is pounding, his stomach twisting with butterflies.

God, what are they, thirteen? They've kissed before, multiple times. Paul has seen him, almost completely naked, attempting to piss into Till's toilet from across the length of the bathroom, high off his mind and thoroughly drunk—though that is hardly the _worst_ thing he's witnessed. Richard has shown him the most fucked up porn, he has vomited uncontrollably in front of him, he's described nights of sex he's had despite Paul's protests, and carried him in his arms, lifeless and bloodless, into surgery. How is holding hands more embarrassing or overwhelming than all of that? Well, okay—maybe the near-death experience was a _little_ more overwhelming than the hand holding. But still.

 

Eventually, they finally make it back to Paul's flat. Nearly burnt up from his flustered state, Paul lets out a long, deep breath as he takes out his keys and unlocks the door, with Richard standing beside him. They hadn't exchanged a single word on the walk back, and Paul is nearly vibrating with restless energy. Just that prodding urge to fucking _say_ or do _anything_. He's going to go crazy. He shoves open the door and steps inside. While Richard follows him in and closes the front door again, Paul lifts a foot, one at a time, to unzip and yank off his boots, tossing them aimlessly onto the floor.

He's more than a little surprised when Richard steps around him, grabs a fistful of his shirt, and shoves him back against the front door. Paul's breath rushes from his lungs, his eyes widening and fixed on Richard's face—his green eyes are intense, his lips in a line, cheeks red and eyebrows knit. Paul's hands are slightly raised due to his shock, poised to act if necessary.

Like Paul expected, Richard leans in, head angled, to crush their lips together. Paul grimaces and that ingrained reluctance swells. There's always that momentary desire to flee, but like every other time, it dissipates into willingness. Paul doesn't return it at first, but Richard's warm lips moving against his own gradually melts his hesitation.

Bringing his arm around Richard's shoulders, Paul curls his fingers into his dark, gelled hair and closes his eyes. With a furrowed brow, he returns the kiss, albeit with less energy than the other man. Richard releases the fistful of his shirt. His touch curls slowly around his side, running down his back, and then up over the length of his spine to rest in the center. That flusters Paul; his kissing becomes lackluster and bashful. Richard softens his enthusiastic kissing to a slow pursing of his lips—which Paul appreciates. Soft kissing is preferable.

Their mouths move together in an intimate back and forth, steadily contributing to Paul's flustered state, until he couldn't bear it anymore. With a final purse of his lips against Richard's, Paul breaks the kiss by pressing a hand to Richard's chest, pushing gently until the other man gets the hint and draws back. Paul slides his touch from his hair, letting it rest against his collarbone instead.

Neither of them remove their hands. Richard watches Paul's face, trying to hold his eyes, but Paul keeps glancing away, an embarrassed expression on his face. Richard speaks lowly, finally breaking the lengthy silence.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing, I just—“ Paul begins to say, shaking his head, and then sighs heavily. After regaining his composure with a deep breath, gaze trained past Richard's shoulder, he meets his eyes and gives him a faint smile. He runs his hands down from his chest, to rest them around his sides comfortably.

“Nothing is wrong. I'm just nervous,” he admits, shrugging a little. He hesitates, worrying at his bottom lip, and then laughs lightly, searching in Richard's patient eyes as he goes on to say, “I've... I've never been with a man before. Or with my closest friend. It's just odd, for me. I just have to warm up to it, alright?”

Nodding, Richard gives him the slightest smile.

“Yeah. I get it. I'll try not to be overbearing.”

“Thank you. So... uh. Can we just—watch a movie or something.”

“Sure. Yeah.”

“Not Tarantino.”

“Fuck you.”

Paul bursts out laughing, head knocking back against the door. Richard takes his hand, grinning himself, and leads him deeper into the living room.


	12. Ich Versteh Euch Nicht

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christoph and Richard are ordered to stay behind in the office to handle money counting. Richard isn't thrilled by this and gets bored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "I don't understand you"
> 
> This is a while before either of them develop their respective relationships. 
> 
> Anyways, you can blame a certain someone for this specific chapter, considering they planted the idea in my head.

Till is busy with a meeting, and Paul has just left to attend to a drug trade. Ollie is on an assignment to handle smuggling, with Flake's guidance. Before he had departed for the meeting with Tägtgren, Till gave both Christoph and Richard instructions to count and store the earnings from selling the stolen haul of Italian suits, considering there's not much else to be done.

And so now the two men sit at a table in the back of the office. The TV is on and filling the silence with noise, contributing to the rustling of cash. Smoke from Richard's endless string of cigarettes clog the air around them, and Christoph had considered disabling his _other_ hand just so he would stop giving him second-hand smoke. He's gaining a headache from the pollution. Meanwhile, Richard doesn't care and just continues lazily counting, stacking, and sealing the money with a cash binding machine, a cigarette hanging lazily between his lips.

Into the second hour of the process, they've barely exchanged a word and Richard's motivation is dangling by a thread. He eventually tips forward, forehead planting against the pile of cash as he groans.

“I'm going to kill myself,” he states, the cash fluttering underneath his mouth. Christoph briskly counts through a handful of money, sorting it into a neat stack as he says, “I won't stop you.”

Rising back up against his seat with a bill stuck to his forehead, Richard remarks with narrowed eyes, “I wouldn't be surprised if you handed me the gun.”

“Do you need one?”

“Shut up. How are you not bored by this? We've been sitting here for two hours touching paper!”

“Boredom isn't a concern of mine,” Christoph says, flicking his cold gaze up to fix on Richard's. Richard scoffs, reaching up to slap the cash from his face as he says, “Well, it is for me. So I'm going to go do a fucking line to make this a little more tolerable. If you want, I can _share_. Maybe the coke will give you a personality.”

Christoph looks at him with an unamused gaze, his cloudy and blue eyes impatient. Richard smirks and rises from the table with a scrape of his chair. He grabs his full ashtray to dump it into the trash bin by the table, and then shoves aside the diminishing pile of cash onto Christoph's end, clearing some surface. Christoph scowls.

“You are not doing it on this table.”

“Oh, but I am,” Richard says, producing the little sealed baggy from his inner suit pocket with a smirk and an arched brow. Christoph stares at the white substance within it with such intensity Richard is concerned he's going to obliterate it purely from the hatred beaming from his eyes. Richard's smirk becomes amused. He _really_ hates this shit—or at least, when Richard abuses it in his presence. Richard knows he doesn't care if the others do it.

Without commenting on it, he opens the bag and shakes a small amount onto the sleek wood of the table. He uses one of the stack of bills to even it into a line. Christoph refocuses his attention on the work; he shoves a stack of bills into the binding machine with blatant agitation, jostling the poor thing. Richard then leans in, pressing one finger to a nostril as he sucks in the line. He lifts his head, wiping at his nose with wide blinks of his eyes. Christoph eyes him as Richard runs his hand over his face, and then abruptly slams a fist down on the table, jostling the money and sending a few fluttering onto the floor as he proclaims loudly, “Let's finish this shit so I can fucking go home!”

Christoph rolls his eyes and goes back to counting money, flicking through the bills rapidly. Richard takes a heavy seat again and reaches out to grab a handful of cash. He begins to sloppily pile each bill into a stack, though he's rushing, which causes the cash to topple over. From the corner of his eye, Christoph watches him attempt to rebuild the fallen stack three times, his actions becoming increasingly impatient. Silently binding the handful he has with a whir of the machine, Christoph witnesses him count, pause, retrace his steps by recounting, pause, and then doing it again before he growls and starts from the beginning by slapping the stack on the table and rebuilding it, one bill at a time.

With his attempt to rush through it, Richard only creates more work for himself by repeatedly losing his mental count. He manages to bind a single stack through the length of ten minutes. It's pathetic how many times he had to recount. Christoph even begins to feel an amused smirk pulling at his lips, watching the other man curse under his breath as he lost his place, _again_. Eventually, after struggling with the second stack for another five minutes, Richard just chucks the wad of money into the air while screaming, “Fuck this bullshit!”

As money flutters down to the floor, Christoph stifles his smile, watching Richard shove out from under the table, knocking over his chair in the process, and stomp over to the sectional. He flops down atop it, splaying out with a hand raising to rest over his eyes. The whirring of the small machine binding Christoph's stacks of counted money fills the silence, along with the chattering of the TV, until Richard groans and slaps his hand against the leather of the couch, calling out, “C, I'm bored! Stop being a boring asshole and entertain me!”

Silently, Christoph finishes another stack, his fingers quick and controlled as he counts through the handful of cash, before feeding it into the binding machine. Then he gets up with a creak of his chair, earning Richard's impatient gaze. He watches the taller man pace across the room, to reach him and the sectional. Smoothing out his tie, Christoph stands over him with an unreadable expression. He looks down at Richard, eyes hard. Grinning, Richard folds his arms underneath his head as he says sarcastically, “Well hi there, C.”

“Get up,” Christoph responds flatly, “We're not done with the task T has given us.”

“What, the task where we sit around with our thumbs up our asses? I'm good, thanks,” Richard remarks, before draping an arm over his eyes, letting out a sigh. Christoph looks unamused. Sweeping his gaze over the length of Richard's laying body, he settles his stare on his sleek dress shoes. Reaching out, he grabs both of his ankles and firmly tugs him off of the sectional and onto the hardwood floor with a heavy thud of his body meeting the floor, which has the breath knocking out from his lungs. Richard grunts in pain and looks up at him with shock, his hands and elbows planting against the floor. Christoph looks over his shoulder to watch where he's going as he begins to drag Richard back to the table.

Realizing what he's doing, Richard laughs sharply and begins to kick at him, attempting to shake his grip off as he twists his body, pressing his hands flatly on the floor to regain some control. Richard manages to jerk his legs out of Christoph's grasp, after being dragged nearly halfway across the room. He begins to scramble back to the sectional, giggling like a fucking child as he goes, though Christoph immediately catches up to stomp his foot over his ass, which flattens Richard on the floor.

Leaning over, Christoph grabs his ankles again, an amused smile curling at the corners of his lips. But then Richard whips around, and kicks his foot against Christoph's bicep, jerking his hand away. Grinning, Richard manages to tug his other foot out of his hold, and turns around to crawl back to the sectional, but then Christoph gets on top of him, pressing a knee to the center of his back while grabbing the back of his neck.

“Get the fuck off of me!” Richard growls, though a laugh seeps into it. He jerks underneath the other man, twisting his upper half enough to reach back and push at him. In return, Christoph grabs both of his arms and yanks them behind his back, smirking sadistically. Richard wiggles underneath him, huffing a laugh and shouting, “You fucker!”

“No one had given you permission to slack off, R,” Christoph muses, sneering now. Planting the soles of his dress shoes against the hardwood floor, Richard shoves his body forward in an attempt to slide out from underneath him, and only ends up knocking his head against the couch. He goes limp underneath Christoph, groaning and cursing under his breath. That nearly has Christoph snorting with amusement. Richard fidgets underneath him, trying to yank his arms out from his unrelenting hold, and failing to do so. He pants into the floor, growling with a smile in his voice, “C, I'll get back to work, just—just get off!”

Silently lingering on top of him, Christoph contemplates whether he should tease Richard some more for his own enjoyment, but decides he doesn't care that much. He releases his hold on Richard's arms, and moves to get off of him. Richard turns over onto his back, hands planted on the floor for stability, and looks up at the other man with a poorly repressed smile. Christoph hesitates, and then offers a hand. Richard looks at it, his grin softening to a thin smirk.

With a raise of his middle finger, Richard then turns to pull himself up onto the sectional, a shit-eating grin on his face. Considering he absolutely anticipated that, Christoph reaches out, grabs him by the bicep, and yanks him back to the floor with a forceful tug that has Richard collapsing onto his back with a shocked exclamation. Standing over him, Christoph watches his dazed, dilated eyes fix on him, his suit coat flipped open and hands resting limply by his sides. A grin slowly curls over Richard's unshaven face.

“Don't you fucking dare, C,” he says. Christoph arches a brow at him. They remain like that, in a moment of tense wait, before Richard lurches for the sectional again. This time, Christoph hooks his forearm around his chest and shoves him back down against the floor. Richard grunts and attempts to twist away, but Christoph is faster. He wrestles him down and straddles his waist, knees pinning his wrists to the floor with his hand immediately curling around his throat and keeping him restrained. The stubble on his upper neck tickles his fingers.

Richard struggles underneath him with noises of strain coming from between grit teeth, attempting to jerk his body out from under Christoph's, though he only manages to knock his knees up into Christoph's back. He gives up, flopping down into the hardwood floor, head knocking back against it. Closing his eyes, Richard huffs a laugh, grinning. Christoph doesn't move, he only watches the other man, his cloudy and blue eyes trained down on his flushed face.

“You win,” Richard mutters, cracking his eyes open to look up at him. Christoph relaxes slightly by bearing some of his weight down on him, straddling his waist still. Richard looks up at him with a spreading smile, revealing a sliver of teeth and his crow's feet. Christoph stares down at him, thinking that he certainly smiles more when he's high. He pauses when he feels something solid press against his ass through his slacks.

“Do you have a knife in your pocket?” Christoph asks with a furrowed brow, but then it registers immediately after. Shutting his mouth, he looks at Richard with shock. Richard shakes his head slightly, underneath Christoph's grip around his neck. He looks up at the ceiling, his broad smile weakening.

“Nope.”

Then he laughs nervously, meeting the other man's gaze, and says, “You can get off me now, C.”

Silently, Christoph remains kneeling over him, staring down at him with an unreadable look in his eyes. He moves his knees off of Richard's wrists. Richard sets his hands down flatly on the floor and moves to sit up, but Christoph is still bearing his weight on him and keeping his hand around his throat. Richard looks up at him with impatience, but the way Christoph is staring at him has him pausing—with hard eyes, a furrowed brow, a tense jaw and flushed cheeks.

Tightening his hold around his neck, Christoph's face straightens into that expressionless mask again. He reaches back with his other hand to firmly squeeze the stiffness pressing against his ass. Richard jerks underneath him, his dilated eyes widening.

“What—What are you doing?!” Richard blurts, shifting underneath him, his hands lifting to push against Christoph's thighs. Christoph watches him silently, saying nothing. With his broad hand, he gropes at his hard cock, fingers wrapping firmly around his shaft through the sleek fabric of his slacks. Richard looks up at him with disbelief.

Face remaining stoic, his cheeks flushing, Christoph wordlessly rubs his hand up and down over his stiff cock, occasionally squeezing his fingers tightly around the outline. It is uncomfortably strange gripping his cock in his hand, feeling the heat of it through his pants, though he continues doing so regardless. Richard shudders underneath him and begins to melt back into the floor, his eyes becoming lidded. Christoph narrows his eyes down at him, noticing his descent into willingness.

A particularly firm squeeze of his hand has Richard grunting and arching his hips up into it, head tipping back into the floor, hands clutching around Christoph's thighs. Then suddenly, Christoph releases the tight hold on his hard-on and gets off of him, rising up onto his feet. Panting a bit, Richard looks up at him with shock, watching him fix his tie and adjust the cuffs to his suit coat. Eyes cold, Christoph says flatly, “Goodnight, R.”

Turning, he then strides to the office's door with sharp taps of his shoes against the hardwood floor. He unlocks and yanks it open, momentarily allowing access to the pounding bass of the strip club's music, before stepping out and slamming the door shut behind him. Richard is left laying there, stunned, his clothing and gelled hair haphazard.

Eventually, he gets up with an irritated frown and fixes his clothes with impatient tugs of his hands before pacing up to the cluttered table.

For the next five minutes, he cleans up by shoving the remaining unsorted money into duffel bags, storing the stacks of cash in their safe, and putting away the banknote binding machine. He angrily slaps the TV off with a buzz of the screen, and begins towards the fridge to grab the bottle of vodka from the freezer. As he impatiently pours himself a glass, a glare on his face, the office door is drawn open again. He glances over, subconsciously hoping it was Christoph.

Instead, he sees Till with his coat draped over an arm, his tie undone. He must have just gotten back from the meeting.

Cursing under his breath, Richard sets down the bottle of vodka with a bit more force than necessary, and grabs the glass. He throws back the small amount of vodka he managed to pour himself, feeling it stab his taste buds as it descends, and then screws the cap back onto the bottle. He did not want to see anyone else tonight. Till notices him and calls, “R, good evening.”

“Yeah, hi,” Richard mumbles, shoving the vodka back into the freezer before turning and striding straight for the open door. Till watches him with concern on his face, seeing the dark expression twisting his features. He reaches out to grab him by the bicep before he can escape through the door. Richard halts, looking up at Till with aggravation. Till searches in his green eyes and asks, “What's wrong?”

“Your guard dog wasn't being very nice,” Richard says flatly, and then jerks his arm out of his hold. Till arches a brow.

“What did he do?”

Richard nearly laughs at how Till understood who he was talking about immediately. Richard rolls his eyes.

“I'm sure he'd love to tell you all about it. I'll see you tomorrow, T.”

Then he strides out of the office, hands in fists and eyes narrowed. Bursting out into the night through the back entrance, he readjusts his dick in his pants with a grimace as he storms through the parking lot towards his parked car.


	13. Koennt Ihr Mich Hoeren?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cornered animal becomes vicious; Paul obtains his own deformity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "Can you hear me?"
> 
> Warning for gore/murder/torture.
> 
> Apparently Germans make their waffles [heart-shaped](https://78.media.tumblr.com/e8dcc9fab004b478ca516ad6e31b53fd/tumblr_ozq9qf1CqG1rvajymo1_1280.jpg). Suddenly, I wish I lived in Germany.

The night air is chilling, swallowing him whole when he steps out of the warm lobby of the apartment building. With his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, Paul hurries to his car, his scarf wrapped around his face up to his nose, black beanie pulled low. The woman he hooked up with had asked him to stay, but he promised Till to meet with him and Flake at a late night restaurant to discuss something. And really, having heart-shaped waffles at almost one in the morning sounds much more appealing than the possibility of having more sex.

So briskly he walks to his car, his breath visible in the cold winter air, with waffles on his mind. He manages to reach his door, withdraw his keys, and unlock the driver's door before suddenly an arm is locking around his neck and yanking him away from his car.

Shouting, Paul drops his keys and jerks his hands up to grab onto the arm that tightens around his throat. He attempts to violently throw himself out of the headlock, bucking forward, twisting himself around, kicking his legs—though it proves futile. He's smaller than the other person, and they easily overpower him; the flexing muscles currently strangling him provide great indication as to why.

Throwing his elbow back against his attacker's side while stomping his heel down against the bridge of their foot has them growling in pain, their hold loosening. It's enough for Paul to desperately twist out from the headlock. He grabs his small concealed gun from his boot and whips around to point it at the assailant while flicking off the safety. Paul only comes to realize there's two of them when the other man lurches forward to grab his wrist and smash his arm against his car, which has him crying out in pain and dropping his gun. Then they grab onto his shoulders and knee him in the stomach, hard enough that he buckles, staggering over until his side knocks against his car, arms around his midsection.

“Fuck you!” Paul wheezes, blinking heavily while drooling from his grimacing mouth. The sides of his head are suddenly grabbed, and then that same knee surges up to smash into his face. He's thrown back against the car, a roaring pain exploding through his nose and eyes. He then collapses limply atop the asphalt of the parking lot, vision becoming static, and then nothing.

 

* * *

 

At an indiscernible time later, Paul crawls back to consciousness. Immediately, he becomes aware of two things when he slowly opens his eyes: his entire face is throbbing with pain, and he's restrained to an uncomfortable chair in what appears to be an commercial kitchen with sleek counter tops and appliances. He moans in pain. His nose had apparently bled, because his lips and chin are covered in dried blood. His eyes are swelling, and his nose hurts like a bitch.

Shifting weakly, Paul tests the restraints around his ankles and his wrists—it's duct tape. His feet are taped to the legs of the chair, his wrists fastened together to one of the bars on the back of the chair. Curling his fingers up, he runs them along the taut layers of the tape. He can't slip his hands out. He winces as he attempts to stand with the chair. They're thorough. Somehow, the chair is fastened to the floor. He sighs, slumping back into it. What the fuck is this? Why is he here? What's going to happen to him?

Glancing around, he takes notice of the knives magnetized to a bar on the wall above the counters to his right, and the exit door on the opposite end of the kitchen. While contemplating his options, he sits there for ten minutes, attempting to wiggle his hands or legs free with rising panic. Till and Flake will notice that he failed to show up right? Paul is punctual and has never missed a meeting—well, okay, maybe he did like a year ago, but that was only because of traffic. So it would seem odd to them, right? But even if they did notice, they wouldn't know where he is, or where to begin looking. Shit.

Cursing under his breath, Paul heaves a sigh and grimaces. What the fuck is he going to do?

Before he could consider it further, the exit door is suddenly pushed open, earning his startled gaze. He sees a man stride in. An easygoing smile is on his face, his eyes hidden by sunglasses. He's wearing casual clothing, his hands in the pockets of his slacks. The blood drains from Paul's face, and reforms in his gut like a rock. As another man paces into the room, wearing a suit himself, Paul swallows hard and speaks up, saying sharply with a grimace, “What the fuck is going on? Why the fuck am I here?”

Neither men answer him, though they do look at him, one expressionless, the other still smiling, as they approach. The one bearing the obnoxious smirk pauses at the stove closest to where Paul sat. He reaches out to flick one of the knobs to the side. The burner becomes a vibrant red as it heats up. Jaw clenching, Paul watches him with hard eyes. Both he and the other man come to a stop before him, the one in the suit adjusting his cuffs while the other folds his hands in front of himself. Paul's apprehension and uneasiness only rises. He's a bit helpless in this scenario, so he can only wait for an opportunity to strike.

“Two and a half weeks ago, four of our men were killed,” the one in the suit states, staring blankly at Paul's grimacing face, “Your colleague shot them down in the street, in cold-blooded murder. Hellner is not pleased. He wants compensation.”

He pauses, and then goes on to say, “But we don't kill another family's men like animals. So instead, we will cause suffering that lasts longer than the time it takes for the bullet to pierce your skull. Your colleague will be faced with a guilt that lingers a lifetime. Hellner has decided that is sufficient as punishment.”

“That's bullshit!” Paul shouts, jerking against his restraints as he growls, “Your men attacked _him_ , for no good _fucking_ reason! It's called self-defense, not cold-blooded murder! He had no fucking choice!”

Saying nothing, the man in the suit gestures to the other with a nod and then steps aside. The one with the aggravating smile just stares at Paul, hands folded in front of himself still.

“Consequence accompanies foolishness,” the man in the suit says, his eyes piercing and trained on Paul's apprehensive face.

“We'll start with something cosmetic,” the one smiling says, speaking for the first time since Paul had the pleasure of meeting him, “But then maybe afterward, we'll take your fingers. It sure is a sore spot, to no longer be useful. They'll have no choice but to dispose of you. Wouldn't that just suck?”

Then he turns and snatches one of the knives from the rack on the wall. Paul watches him unwaveringly, his eyes dark and jaw clenched. He continues twisting his fists side to side behind himself, attempting to wear down the duct tape as the man steps closer with the knife. But surprising Paul, instead of cutting him like he expected, he leans over to cleanly drag the knife through the duct tape around his ankles. He does the same to the tape around his wrists, but only to the strip that keeps them connected to the chair—they remain bound together. Paul immediately surges up to latch his teeth around his throat, though he doesn't have the time to _tear_ before retaliation is made.

“None of that!” the other man bellows, while driving his fist into Paul's gut, up towards his ribcage. Paul buckles forward, wheezing, though he's caught by patient hands around his biceps. With those two hands grabbing tightly onto him, Paul is suddenly dragged away from the chair. Planting his feet against the floor, Paul attempts to jerk away, growling fiercely.

Weakened from the punch and his hands remaining restrained, Paul is unable to break free as he's tugged to the stove.

“Fuck you! Let go of me!” he shouts, wildly throwing himself around in an attempt to jerk out of his hold. The other man is bigger and stronger than he, and he's able to overcome his violent wiggling by pinning him to the outside of the stove. The man wearing the suit comes around to grab his biceps, keeping them behind his back with a firm grasp as the other man clutches the back of Paul's neck.

“I'm sure you'll let Tägtgren know he has to face the consequences of the mistakes his men make, won't you?” the man says with a smirk, watching Paul's terrified, enraged face as he struggles helplessly against their hold, “You can tell him there will be more to come, if necessary. Hellner is not a forgiving man.”

“This can be dealt with through communication!” Paul snarls, jerking against their grasps with wide eyes and bared teeth, “Not violence! You say you're not like animals, but here you are, acting like a bunch of wild fucking beasts! What he did was not _torture_ , or mindless _murder_ , it was the prevention of his own death! So you can go fuck yourselves and your bullshit reasoning!”

“This is communication,” the other man says with a grin, “I'm sure it speaks loud and fuckin' clear.”

He begins to forcefully push Paul's face towards the red hot stove burner, neglecting his growling and desperate jerking. Paul attempts to plant his feet against the front of the stove and push himself away, though his boots slip against the sleek surface. He begins to yell the closer his face gets to the scalding burner, his eyes clenching shut, heart pounding, skin soaked with cold sweat. The heat licks at his cheek before his skin even makes contact; when it does, the unbearable heat crescendos into a searing, white hot pain that has him screaming hoarsely in agony. The sound of sizzling flesh joins his piercing yelling.

His body bucks wildly, so violently that the other man has to bear his weight against him to keep him pinned. The hand on the back of his head is firm and strong, keeping the side of his face pressed to the burner throughout his bucking and howling. Abruptly, his desperate struggling had resulted in the weakened duct tape to tear. He immediately jerks his arms out from the slackened grip of the suited man and reaches over to grab the knife that had been previously laid on the counter.

“Grab him!” the other man shouts. Before he could be restrained again, Paul manages to forcefully shove himself away from the stove and out from under the grip of his hand. The man wearing the suit lunges for him.

With an intense, murderous expression on his face, Paul meets him halfway—gripping the knife tightly in both hands, he thrusts it upwards into his torso, under his ribcage, separating skin from skin, flesh from flesh. The other man cries out sharply in shocked pain, eyes wide and mouth twisting into a grimace. Snarling ferociously, Paul plunges the knife three more times into his belly with thrusts of his arms, his disfigured face dark and malicious. The other man staggers back and collapses against the counter top with a crash, and then meets the floor heavily. He goes limp.

Led by adrenaline and fury, Paul manages to block out the blistering pain in his face as he whips around to face the other man. He's already diving for Paul—when he knocks into him, it's like meeting a brick wall of muscle and rage. The breath is knocked from him when they fall to the floor, atop his dying colleague. The knife goes skidding across the kitchen floor.

Disoriented from being crushed underneath the bigger man, Paul falters and suffers a blow to his side and then his stomach, the other man bearing his weight against him. Paul grunts sharply in pain with locked teeth, his eyes wide and enraged. He thrusts his hands up against the other man's face, sinking his nails in deeply. He brutally _tears_ them down from his eyes, over his cheeks, to his jaw, taking skin with it.

“You little fucker!” the man yells hoarsely, his face in a grimace, now bearing streaks of torn skin that bead quickly with vibrant blood. The moment of distraction gives Paul opportunity to lunge up, gripping his throat with his teeth once again. With a lock of his jaw and a twist of his head, he rips off a chunk of his flesh, bearing muscle and a spray of blood. It splatters across Paul's animalistic face.

The piercing screams that fill the kitchen hurts Paul's ears. The bigger man rolls off of him, clutching at his neck with wide eyes. Paul immediately flips around onto his hands and knees and scrambles to the fallen knife. Grabbing it, he then climbs up onto his feet and turns to the other man who's flailing and rolling around on the floor. Paul steps up to him, his bloody face intense with malevolence and ferocity, his eyes wide and hyper-focused.

Gripping the handle with both hands, Paul raises the kitchen knife above his head and then brings it down to plunge it deep into his chest. The other man's yelling is silenced into a shocked grunt, his eyes wide and trained up on Paul's glowering face, hands remaining locked around his torn throat. Kneeling beside him, Paul's body lurches violently with each lift and downwards thrust of his arms, repeatedly driving the blade into his chest and belly.

Skin, muscle, and sinew gives way to carbon steel again and again, until the exclamations of agony deplete into silence. The puncturing of flesh and Paul's strained growls replace the screaming, which is then followed by the jarring clang of the knife being thrown against the opposite wall. Panting heavily, Paul collapses back against the cabinets, grimacing.

Hands raising, Paul is tempted to feel at his face, but the miniscule coherent thought he has left decides against it. This burning pain is unlike anything he's ever felt. The closest experience he's had to this sensation is unintentionally pressing his bare arm against a gun which he had fired multiple times beforehand.

With a repressed whimper crawling from his throat, Paul staggers onto his feet. Slapping a hand down against the counter top, he keels over at the waist and vomits onto the blood-splattered floor. Moaning, Paul waits for the nausea to pass, his eyes weakly closing and re-opening as drool oozes from his agape mouth. He pants heavily, swallowing thickly, and then steps over his vomit. After confirming they did indeed take his phone after checking the pockets of his pants and ruined leather jacket, he begins towards the exit, wincing. But then he pauses. He sighs.

Turning back, he grimaces as he approaches the bodies laying strewn over the floor of the kitchen. Kneeling beside the fucker who had pinned his face to the burner, Paul digs into his slacks until he finds keys. Then, staggering back onto his feet, he begins towards the exit again. Trying to ignore the pulsating pain in his face, Paul shoves his way out into the cool night, entering a small parking lot. The cold feels good against his overheated skin.

He approaches the lone car parked nearby.

The key works.

He gets in the driver's side, and starts the car, lethargically.

Somehow, he manages to drive to the nearest public location that is still open. He turns into the parking lot, and then performs the worst parking job he's ever made. Stepping out of the car, Paul stumbles his way to the front door of the late night bar and pulls it open.

He enters. There are maybe six people here, at this hour.

Approaching the bar, Paul slumps heavily against it with a strained grunt of pain, gaining the attention of the bartender. When he fixes his gaze on Paul's mutilated, bloody face, he recoils and looks at him with shock. Clearing his throat, Paul raises a hand in greeting, eyes weakly lidded, and then says roughly, “Hey, sorry. I need to use your phone to call an ambulance.”

 

* * *

 

Many hours following the skin graft procedure, Paul lays in a hospital bed, his face bandaged with an IV line in his hand, feeding replenishing fluids into his body. Till and Flake are speaking quietly by the door, while Christoph sits at Paul's bedside. Hands resting limply in his lap, Christoph's eyes are distantly trained on Paul's sleeping face. With his jaw clenched and body coiled with tension, he remains silent, his mind in another location, far away.

A hand resting on his shoulder has Christoph's vision refocusing, his hands squeezing into fists. He looks up to see Till standing over him, his face hard and eyes fixed on Paul's lax face.

“We should let him rest. He won't wake up again for a while.”

Nodding silently, Christoph trains his cold, cloudy and blue eyes on Paul's small, frail, motionless form as he rises from the chair. Till pats him on the back and guides him away from the bed, his broad hand a heavy presence on his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

The mixture of blood and dirt and sweat is washed from his pale skin. Descending down his wiry arms and legs, dripping from fingertips to join the painting of red and black on the floor of the bathtub. He stands unmoving under the hot spray, his eyes closed and face stony. Recollections flash through his disturbed mind: disconnected limbs, revealed flesh, stagnant blood, the pungent stench of bleach and Earth, the hollow look in Paul's eyes, the blood under his fingernails, the blackening bruises around his eyes and nose, the emptiness in his voice as he described the events that had occurred—all due to Christoph's mistakes.

With a hoarse, broken yell, Christoph smashes his fist into the shower wall, again, again, again, and again. Repeatedly throwing his torso into it—again, again, _again_ —with a twisting grimace on his face, until his hand screams in agony and pulsates with pain. Drawing his fist back, Christoph pants heavily, his upper half heaving. Eyes wide and teeth bared, he stares at the spiderweb of cracks he created, painted by his blood.

He knuckles are throbbing, his middle finger stinging with a shooting pain. He can tell he sprained it. This doesn't bother him. Despite the sharp, stabbing sensation, he curls his fingers into a fist. Coming down from his suffocating rage, all that's left is the candle that's been put out, now releasing only extinguished smoke.

Panting heavily, Christoph stares vacantly at the blood on the wall. Born from an extensive combination of suffering, his eyes burn, his vision swimming as his lips contort into a pained grimace. The tears that had sat patiently within him for many years now roll down across speckled cheeks, to be washed away by the water.

Along with his sprained finger, his heart aches. He's familiar with this pain.


	14. Ich Will Dass Ihr Mir Vertraut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Till, Christoph, Ollie, Paul, and Richard attend another one of Peter's dinner parties.
> 
> Till and Christoph get a little too drunk and stay longer than the others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "I want you to trust me"
> 
> More graphic smut. I'm sorry. No one look at mm e

Laughter and conversation carries throughout the house; from the lounge room, through the kitchen, the spacious dining area, to the outside pool. People stand or sit around, conversing, others exploring Tägtgren's expansive home or enjoying the evening outside on his balcony. Like every other dinner party he's hosted, a ring of tables display an assortment of rich food. Hired staff hands out flutes of champagne, progressively intoxicating the majority of the party as the night grows longer.

An exception to this is Ollie, who chose to avoid the offered alcohol to act as a designated driver, if need be. Flake has avoided the occasion entirely—he's outgrown the need to impress or please. Meanwhile, Richard and Paul are both grabbing a glass each time a tray passes by them, giggling together while abusing the source of alcohol as if acting mature around their boss is unimportant. They only restrain themselves when said boss approaches, following a conversation with Christoph (who immediately steps back to Till's side).

With a smile on his face, Peter reaches out to pat Paul on the bicep firmly while saying, “It's good seeing you back on your feet, P. How do you feel?”

A smile remains plastered to Paul's flushed face, his eyes slowly blinking. He grins and says with a raise of his half-empty champagne flute, “Drunk! But standing, so that's a good sign.”

With a laugh, Peter nods and continues to say with a tilt of his head, “I'm glad to see you here, at all. I've witnessed men in the past faced with the exact same wound, more or less. They weren't quite so lucky.”

Grin softening, Paul looks at Richard as he says with a nudge of his elbow against his arm, “If it wasn't for R, I wouldn't be! He got me out of there pretty damn quick. He handled it well. He was _my hero_.”

Laughing, Paul reaches out and nudges Richard on the bicep while cracking up over what he said. Richard snorts and nods, before raising his flute of champagne and proclaiming with a giggle, “To not dying!”

Bursting out a laugh, Paul reaches out to knock their glasses together, but instead spills some champagne on Richard's suit sleeve. Richard sputters and then complains with a grin and wide green eyes, “Look what you did, P! You goddamn idiot!”

Peter just watches them with amusement, witnessing their back and forth bantering until he leans in and says amongst their squabbling, “Enjoy the rest of the night, gentlemen. I have to go speak with your capo now. Don't spill any champagne on my carpet, alright?”

Richard's grinning face straightens as he meets his gaze, saying with a polite nod, “Thank you, sir. I can promise _I_ won't spill anything.”

Then he directs a pointed look at Paul, who, while clinging to Richard's arm, whirls around to look at Peter, stating loudly, “I have never spilled anything in my entire life! Don't worry!”

Peter raises a hand and begins to walk away, followed by Richard's annoyed remark towards Paul, and Paul's laughter. He navigates his way through the crowd, giving brief hello's along the way, searching for a striking mohawk among all the heads. He fails to find him in the kitchen and living room, so he tries the balcony—which proves to be successful.

Lingering at the open door, he sees Till leaning against the railing with Christoph, standing shoulder to shoulder. With a smile on his rugged face, he's holding up a champagne glass towards the other man. Christoph is eying him, though a smile is toying at the corners of his mouth. Peter sees Christoph reluctantly curl his fingers around the champagne glass and bring it to his thin lips, keeping his gaze trained intently on Till's as he takes a drink. Somehow, the image is incredibly intimate. He contemplates leaving to avoid disrupting it, but then Till casts a glance to the door, and pauses when he sees Peter.

“Tägtgren!” he calls, straightening from the railing with his smile growing slightly. Peter then steps out onto the balcony, extending a hand. Till takes it firmly, and then pulls him into a one-armed hug while planting a quick kiss to his cheek, as a greeting. Christoph watches while nursing at the champagne, his smile gone, but eyes relaxed.

“How is your night going?” Peter asks, searching in Till's glassy green eyes. He's apparently already tipsy. Till grins slightly and gestures to Christoph with a glance of his eyes as he says, “It's going well. C is keeping me company, which is always a pleasure. It's a lively party, tonight. It's good to see you. We were thinking you wouldn't make it.”

“I would have to, to my own dinner party!” Peter laughs, and then smiles at Christoph as he says, “Well, I think I'm no longer surprised by C being at your side. You two seem... Inseparable these days. ”

Christoph sputters on the champagne mid-drink and turns away over the railing. Till glances over, a faint concerned frown replacing the smile, though his worry is placated by Christoph turning back to them and saying lowly while wiping off his mouth, “My apologies.”

“No need,” Peter says, amused, with his gaze trained on Till's face, seeing the smile bloom on his lips again. Watching Till says enough. He knows Till quite well. Meeting his boss' eyes again, Till lets out a breath and goes on to say, “I'm simply irresistible. C being drawn to my side frequently is no surprise to me.”

“Modesty is more charming on you, T,” Peter laughs. Grinning fondly with his crow's feet appearing, Till chuckles and says with a firm squeeze to his superior's bicep, “That was the most humble statement I could've possibly made.”

“He's much worse,” Christoph speaks up wryly, smirking around the rim of the champagne flute, earning a betrayed look from Till, and another laugh from Peter.

“A side to T I haven't seen before,” Peter muses, and then reaches out to pinch Till's cheek as he says, “Let's stick to what I'm familiar with, why don't we?”

Till grins and says, “I'll see if I can control myself.”

“You better,” Peter remarks, and then they laugh, while Christoph smiles as he downs the remainder of Till's champagne. Then Peter lets out an exhale, casting his gaze out towards the night sky. He speaks up again, asking with a crossing of his arms, “Is F not here? I had something to speak with him about.”

“You know how he is,” Till answers, leaning back against the railing, placing both hands over the skull-carved handle of his cane, “He's become far too cranky and impatient to bear these social gatherings. I'm sure he's reachable by phone, though. He's quite efficient when it comes to answering phone calls.”

“Then I will go give our favorite intolerant doctor a call,” Peter says, smiling broadly. He turns to Christoph and politely holds out a hand, which Christoph smoothly takes and firmly shakes with a respectful dip of his head, while Peter says, “It's good to see you in uplifted spirits, C. I'll speak with you more about the arrangement later, when an update comes.”

“Yes, sir,” Christoph says, giving him a strong look in the eye. Peter nods, turns to Till, who he pats on the cheek and gains a smile in return. He then turns to leave the balcony, and the pair.

Immediately following Peter's departure, Paul and Richard come stumbling onto the balcony, Paul's laughter piercing the otherwise peacefulness of the moment. Christoph watches them as Till takes the empty champagne glass from him, stroking his finger over Christoph's momentarily as he does. Paul comes to a stop by practically tripping into Christoph, who calmly catches him with a hooked arm around his midsection.

Clutching at his biceps with a broad grin on his face, Paul proclaims loudly with the stench of alcohol radiating from his breath, “C, we have to show you something! It's the greatest thing ever!”

“You are very drunk,” Christoph states flatly, searching in his wide gray eyes. Richard steps up among the other three, holding two champagne glasses with an amused look on his face. Paul snorts and takes a much appreciated step back, smoothing his hand up through his short hair as he slurs, “No, I'm not! I'm always like this.”

“Yes, but this is an amplified version,” Christoph remarks, watching Paul turn to Richard to take one of the flutes of champagne. Till chuckles to Christoph's side, resting his arm along the railing behind him. Richard winks at Paul and then they both raise their glasses, and at the same time, reach out to press the rim of both glasses to each other's lower lip, arms overlapped and crossing. Christoph watches, face blank, as they began to drink, both of them tipping up the glass to the other person's lips. Like expected, Richard tilts Paul's far too quickly and spills the remainder down Paul's face to splatter onto the floor of the balcony and over his suit.

“Richard!” Paul yells as he jerks back, which has Richard twisting away, spitting out his mouthful of champagne in a spray as he bursts out laughing. Till chuckles lowly by Christoph's side.

“Impressive,” Christoph states flatly. Paul scrubs at his face with noises of disgust, while Richard loses his shit, collapsing against the railing as he cracks up.

“Control yourselves,” Christoph says, frowning. Amongst his breathless laughter, Richard remarks with a nudge of his hand against Christoph's shoulder, “Don't kill the mood, C, God! Have you ever had fun in your life? Hell, I'm not sure if you even know what 'fun' is! This is _fun_ , C. We're having _fun_. Aren't we, P?”

“You asshole!” Paul laughs, lurching at him to grab him by his suit coat. He tugs him around the balcony and Richard allows it with his hands clutching at Paul's sides, laughing with him until he loses his balance and collapses against Paul, who is far too drunk to bear the weight of a man bigger than he is. They go stumbling back into the side railing, and Paul nearly tips over but Richard grabs him and rights him with a shouted, “Watch yourself, you moron!”

With a clenched jaw and fire in his eyes, Christoph squeezes his hands into fists and lets out a shuddering huff through his nose, enraged gaze trained on the intoxicated pair. Till curls his arm closer around his back and leans in, head tilted, to whisper into his ear, “Forget it, Christoph. He's drunk. Let's go back in.”

Christoph flicks his gaze over to meet Till's. His eyes are beautiful and a deep hazel green, searching in his own with an intensity. Christoph gazes into them with his frustrated expression softening. He nods. Till sets his hand on the small of his back and begins to walk with him to the sliding door. Paul notices and calls out for Christoph, but they ignore him.

As they reenter the living room filled with chatting people, they run into Ollie who seems to be going straight towards the noise of Richard and Paul.

He's stopped by Till gently grabbing his bicep. Training his cool gaze on his leader's, Ollie waits to be spoken to. Leaning in, Till murmurs while looking into his eyes, “You are now assigned to babysitting duty. Make sure R and P don't drink anymore. I don't want them causing a scene at Tägtgren's party. If they refuse to listen, insist by saying it's my _order_.”

Nodding, Ollie replies lowly, “Understood, T. Should I call you if it gets out of hand?”

“Yes. Thank you, O.”

Patting him on the chest, Till then gestures to the balcony's open door with a tilt of his head. As Ollie begins towards it, Till refocuses his attention on his partner. Christoph gives him a faint hint of a smile.

“Now who's killing the fun?”

“Hush,” Till says with a grin, while affectionately squeezing at his side. He takes his arm away from around him when they reach the circle of food at the center of the room. Instead, he takes two champagne flutes from the drink table and gives Christoph a pointed look as he passes one to him. Relenting and taking it from him, Christoph lets out a breath and says with a patient expression, “T, you know I don't drink.”

“For tonight, you do,” Till remarks, clinking their glasses together with a smile, “For me. I want you to be enjoy the evening with me.”

“I am enjoying the evening.”

“Not to its full potential.”

“T...”

“Come on. It won't hurt you. Have some fun with me,” Till muses, smiling, and then brings the lip of the glass to his mouth, taking a sip of the golden drink with his gaze trained on Christoph's. Considering he had finished Till's glass earlier, Christoph isn't as reluctant as he would be. He presses his lips together and then brings the rim to his lips. He takes a drink, arching a brow challengingly at the other man. Grinning, Till begins to lean in to kiss him on the brow, but then stops himself. He turns his head away, bringing the glass to his mouth again to mask the motion. Christoph snorts into his glass mid-drink, which has Till nudging him playfully with his elbow.

 

Throughout the span of an hour, Till and Christoph go through three more glasses, while Till attempts to create a presence for himself for image sake and interact with other attendants. As he does, Christoph simply picks at the offered fruit among the display of food while holding a glass of champagne, watching Till converse with others. Gradually, the population of the party diminishes. People deeming their stay long enough, saying goodbye to Peter and thanking him for the food and pleasant evening before departing. Meanwhile, Till and Christoph linger.

Considering Till is a frequent drinker, it takes those three glasses in addition to the two he already had to get him drunk. Christoph only needs the three and a half, and then he's refusing any more flutes Till attempts to place in his hands, which he does whenever he steps away from a conversation to fleetingly rejoin the other man. Christoph's feet aren't quite as stable and his tongue is tripping up frequently, his lips now much more susceptible to smiles.

Eventually, Till decides he's done enough socializing and pulls a drunk Christoph upstairs. They both stumble up the stairs, Till more than Christoph considering his initial imbalance. Laughing, Christoph has to help him up despite his own instability, and Till is too enchanted by his grin to really become embarrassed by his own inability. Eventually, they make it up to the top, with only a couple nearby occupants staring.

The upstairs floor is considerably less congested with people. There are a few wanderers, but everyone has been drawn down to the food and energy of socialization. That leaves Christoph and Till to pace the floor, hands subtly linked between them when they're away from the others.

“Quite the events that have occurred here,” Till says, pushing open one door to a double door to reveal a sitting room with a fireplace, two loveseats, a chaise lounge seat, and an extravagant rug in the center. A liquor bar sits on the opposite end of the fireplace, with a crystalline glass surface. He knocks his cane against the door frame while Christoph peeks in, saying lowly, “Peter is a very chatty drunk. He tends to drone on about things I would rather not know about. And the things I have discovered, sitting with him in here late into the night. He's... Very strange.”

“Tägtgren? I would've never guessed,” Christoph muses, staring at the painting beside the fireplace of a woman with her head inserted in a guillotine. He fixes his gaze on Till, who's smirking.

“You've known him a long time,” Christoph adds. Till nods. He brushes his thumb over the back of Christoph's hand as he says, “I have. He's a good friend.”

Christoph watches him with a faint smile on his flushed face. Till admires that smile with glassy green eyes and a lopsided smile of his own. He squeezes Christoph's hand in his own as he leans in to kiss him. Christoph jerks back and casts a shaky glance behind them, towards the stairs; there's no one. Till brings his other hand up to cup his cheek, earning his wide-eyed gaze again.

“I wouldn't kiss you unless I was certain,” Till says, searching in his eyes, “But I can avoid doing that again, while we're here.”

“No, no,” Christoph mutters, slurring slightly, his expression becoming strained, “You can. You know I... I am not _comfortable_ with anyone finding out. So let's just...”

Trailing off, he gives Till a faint smile and then steps back into the sitting room, guiding Till by his hand. Till follows, tightening his hand around Christoph's with preparation to catch him if he trips (which he has, many times already). Christoph pauses to let him close the double doors behind them, with a twist of the lock. Smiling, Christoph pulls him towards one of the loveseats. With his hands on his shoulders, Christoph guides him to take a seat—Till obeys, propping his cane against the couch, though it goes sliding off and rolling on the carpet.

Looking up at Christoph with an intense gaze in his hazel eyes, he watches him climb onto his lap, straddling his thighs with his legs folding on both sides of them. He cups Till's jaw with both hands, thumbs resting over his cheeks, fingers sliding under his ears to cradle his head. Christoph's eyes, both cloudy and blue, are hazy and lustful. Gazing up into them, Till is hypnotized.

Leaning in, Christoph crushes their lips together hungrily. The distant sound of conversation flows up from downstairs, keeping Till aware of the fact they're not alone, and in Tägtgren's _home_ , as their mouths move together in a passionate back and forth. Christoph's broad hands on his face are warm and loving, his thin lips hot and commanding against his own. He's not familiar with this bold side of Christoph—he always asks permission, takes it step by step, cautiously. But this time, he simply dived into it. It has heat bursting throughout Till's body, his hands raising to slide up over Christoph's sides underneath his suit coat.

Raising up onto his knees, Christoph gains the higher ground and forces Till to tip his head back to keep their lips connected. He grasps Till's jaw in a hand and holds it, thumb resting over the spot of facial hair under his bottom lip, while deepening the kiss into something open-mouthed and heavy. Christoph tastes and smells like he drank three glasses of champagne, followed by strawberries and cherries. Till cracks open his eyes to look at his face; he's blushing deeply, his brow knit, and closed eyes relaxed. He's so beautiful.

Their mouths move together intimately, intensely, with Christoph repeatedly, shyly dipping his tongue into Till's mouth. Till's hands squeeze around his sides and simply hold him while they kiss, until Christoph suddenly breaks away with a shuddering breath. Till watches him with heated eyes, admiring the crimson painting his cheeks, the way his kissed lips are swollen and glistening, his eyes dilated and soft.

Leaning in, Christoph begins to shyly, gently press his lips in a trail of kisses from his brow, to his temple, over his jaw, and down to his neck. Till turns his head to allow it, eyes downcast to watch himself run his broad hands over Christoph's thighs, fingers sliding across the sleek fabric of his slacks.

He's silently surprised by Christoph grasping his hand with his own and bringing it from his thigh, to his groin. He forcefully presses Till's hand against himself, flattening his hand across his. Till blinks, startled. Christoph is hard. He can feel it through his pants. He grips him, squeezing his fingers firmly around his shaft through the layers. Christoph lets out the softest whine. Till drifts his tongue between his lips, his insides swimming with a heat.

Thin lips pressed to his neck, against the collar of his suit coat, Christoph keeps his face hidden as he drunkenly mumbles, “I want you so badly, Till. Please touch me.”

“Christoph, we're not alone,” Till murmurs, drawing his other hand up over his back, pulling him closer to himself while repeatedly squeezing his cock through his pants despite his reluctance. Curling around the bigger man with his face hidden against his neck, his hand sliding up over Till's forearm, Christoph moans softly. Hearing such a noise so close to his ear has Till swallowing hard, his own dick stiffening in his slacks. He lets out a breath and removes his hand from Christoph. Christoph shifts on top of him, letting out a noise of complaint, his arm curling tightly around Till's neck, hand spreading over his shoulder. Till shudders, trying to regain his composure as he says quietly, “C, we can't do this here. I'm a little shocked you're... Like this.”

“You got me drunk. You know how I get,” Christoph murmurs, and then huffs a laugh. Pulling back, he meets Till's gaze and bites his lip. He uncurls his arm from around his neck to run his hands down his front, feeling at his chest and sides through the thin layer of his button-up shirt as he searches in his beautiful green eyes. Till squares his jaw, watching him. Christoph's face is utterly submissive: his spotted cheeks are flushed with heated desire in his eyes, his mouth fallen open and lips pink from kissing. Leaning in, Christoph angles his head to softly kiss him again. Till lets his eyes roll shut, his resolve crumbling.

Christoph passionately kisses him with a firm overlapping of his mouth, his broad hands wandering over Till's sides and front. Till is hard in his pants by now, and Christoph seems to have discovered this when he shifts on his lap. He hums into the kiss and bashfully, experimentally rolls his hips down against it—Till grunts, his arm flexing around his back. Christoph huffs a laugh and does it again, firmly pushing his ass down against the stiffness and rocking his hips again. Till jerks his hands down to grab onto his sides.

Breaking the kiss, Christoph meets his lidded, dazed gaze, a smile curling over his lips.

He leans in to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, and then to his temple, before whispering into his ear, voice heavy with intoxication, “Let me use my mouth to pleasure you, T. I want you to feel good. I want you to... Come on my face again.”

“ _C_ ,” Till growls, a warning. Christoph places another few heated kisses to his cheek and jaw, while slipping his hand down between them to grope and squeeze at his cock through his slacks. That's when Till reaches down to firmly grab him by the wrists, pulling his hands away to hold them up between their bodies. Christoph meets his gaze, frowning. Till lets out a deep breath, sighing, and searches in his eyes as he says firmly, voice slightly sluggish with his own state of inebriation, “Christoph, now is not the time. We have to wait until we get home.”

Silence hangs between them for a moment—Till notices the change in Christoph's blue eye. From displeased, to touched. Christoph's pouting face weakens slightly to something warmer.

Till pauses, confused, before he realizes what he said. He smiles faintly. Christoph searches in his eyes, his expression soft. He reaches up to cup Till's face, which the other man allows. He leans in to press a loving, fleeting kiss to his lips, which Till returns gently, and then draws back to meet his gaze, saying, “Alright. Forgive me for getting ahead of myself. Let's go back down.”

Nodding, Till lets Christoph take his hand, helping him back up onto his feet. Till nearly laughs when Christoph leans over to grab his cane from the carpet, but has to plant a hand against the couch for stability when he tips forward a bit too far. Straightening again, Christoph passes him the cane with a faint smile on his flushed face. Till reaches out to take his hand, threading their fingers together. Christoph squeezes his hand, his smile lingering.

 

When they rejoin the party, hands no longer joined, they find themselves among the last dozen. Peter is speaking with an associate, shaking his hand with a smile on his face. With a hand on Till's forearm, Christoph guides him to the tables, the food now diminishing. He reaches out to grab one of the last flutes of champagne. Till huffs a laugh and does the same. Looking at the other man with a sly smirk, Christoph arches a brow and taps their glasses together.

Standing together at the tables, Christoph picks at the strawberries and grapes with his champagne in hand, while Till stands there silently, cane gripped tightly, his gaze trained on Peter.

“When do we plan on leaving?” Christoph asks around the strawberry in his mouth, already reaching for another. Till meets his gaze as he takes a drink from his champagne, humming contemplatively.

“Well, we're both still quite drunk,” he muses, smiling, “We'll have to linger and sober up first before either of us could drive.”

“You say as we have another drink,” Christoph says, grinning, before bringing the rim of his glass to his lips. Till tilts his head with acknowledgment, before murmuring, “Then I suppose we'll have to stay even longer.”

Face straightening, Christoph searches Till's face as he asks lowly, speaking slowly and a bit slurred, “Tägtgren wouldn't mind? I wouldn't want to overstay.”

“He doesn't care,” Till says, fixing his gaze on said man across the room, “Knowing him, he'll insist on it.”

Nodding, Christoph says nothing and instead brings a strawberry to Till's lips. Till recoils slightly in surprise, but then when he realizes what it is, he laughs and meets Christoph's amused gaze as he leans in to take it into his mouth. Christoph begins to trace his lips with his fingertips, so Till grabs onto his wrist and forcefully pulls his hand away, eying him sternly. Christoph just snorts and takes another drink of his champagne.

After eating the strawberry Christoph had given him, Till peeks back at the tray of fruit and subtly reaches for another.

 

Eventually, Peter makes his way to the pair, who now stand at the sliding glass door that leads out into the balcony. They both have a small handful of fruit, talking amongst themselves as they watch the stars, while eating strawberries and grapes.

“I'm going to burst from all this fruit,” he hears Christoph mumble, just before they both notice his approach and glance up to look at him. Peter gives them a broad smile and Till immediately reaches out to pat him firmly on the back, proclaiming, “Tägtgren, you have kept us well fed with...”

He pauses, glances down at his handful, and meets Peter's gaze again as he finishes with, “Strawberries, cherries, and grapes!”

Laughing, Peter nods and glances to Christoph, who is watching the pair with hazy eyes—he's swaying slightly on his feet, his cheek bulging with the strawberry in his mouth. Peter's grin softens to an amused smile. Meeting Till's gaze again, Peter leans in to say lowly (smelling the alcohol on Till's breath), “Perhaps you two should stay. I can tell you've indulged a bit on the champagne.”

“We wouldn't want to trouble you,” Till remarks, shaking his head with a purse of his lips. Peter reaches out to pat him on the side, stating firmly, “It's no trouble. I would rather you stay the night than deal with a cab or worse, attempt to drive. You are familiar with just how many guest rooms I have, T. I insist. We are friends, and as your friend, it is my duty to give you a place to stay.”

“Thank you, Tägtgren,” Till says with a faint smile, his glassy eyes searching in Peter's.

“It's nothing,” Peter replies, returning the smile with a pat to Till's shoulder, before glancing at the other man. Christoph looks like he's focusing on standing and eating the fruit, rather than listening in on the exchange. Nodding, Peter looks at Till again and squeezes his shoulder.

“Feel free to treat this as your own home. I do have to attend to some _business matters_ , so I'll be returning later tonight.”

Till nods, saying with a knowing smile, “I hope the business goes well.”

Smiling, Peter nods and muses, “It will. I'll see you two later, then.”

He then takes his leave, followed by drunken goodnight's from Till and Christoph.

Once he disappears from their line of sight, Christoph rests his hand on Till's arm and asks quietly, “What are we going to do? I have never spent the night at our boss' place before...”

“I have,” Till remarks, glancing at him with an amused expression, “It's not quite so daunting. Come, I want to show you his library upstairs.”

 

By the time they return to the downstairs area, the serving tables are gone, with no trace that there had been a dinner in the first place. The staff are missing; either in the kitchen cleaning up, or they've already dealt with that and departed. Christoph and Till _did_ lounge around in the library for a while, just wasting time and talking aimlessly—or at least, as much talking as Christoph is willing to do, even while drunk.

So now, once their bafflement over the disappearance of the food and hired staff passes, they step out onto the balcony again. The cool night air surrounds them. The stars decorate the dark sky, earning their admiring gazes as they approach the railing to lean against it, shoulder to shoulder like they had been earlier. Checking his watch, Till confirms that it is now twelve at night. They've been here for quite a while.

Reaching into the inner pocket of his suit coat, Till withdraws his cigarette pack and flips it open. He frowns, realizing his last cigarette had been crushed. Probably from when they were laying together in the library, on one of the couches. He returns the pack to his pocket, and then pauses when Christoph holds something out in front of him. It's a new, sealed cigarette pack—his favorite brand. Glancing over with a furrowed brow, Till sees a smile on his face.

“How many do I owe you at this point?” Till mumbles, taking it from him. Christoph laughs lightly and says, “None. Pretend this is the first.”

He crosses his arms over the railing and leans in to rest the side of his head atop them, cloudy and blue eyes lidded as he watches the other man tear it open and withdraw a cigarette to place it between his lips. Till digs his lighter out and flicks it to life with a drag of his thumb, illuminating his face in a striking glow. Christoph admires the visual as he lights his cigarette. Till's eyes are tired and hazy, his lips full and pretty, cheeks developing facial hair in addition to the spot he has under his lip.

Looking at him now, Christoph can read the exhaustion in his frowning lips, his eyes. Till always seems so _tired_. He carries so much on his shoulders. Much like himself, Christoph knows he must keep many things concealed within his mind. He wants to pry it open and read every thought, every memory. It's selfish of him to want to consume Till entirely, to know everything there is about him, about his past, his future. Maybe it's an obsession. But Christoph can't help but find himself _interested_ , desperately so. He has opened himself open for Till, and Till has yet to do the same for him. He wants to see him beyond the facade that tends to come hand in hand with organizational work. What is Till _truly_ like? Will he ever know?

Till glancing over to meet his lengthy stare has his thoughts dissipating into one single thing: his warm green eyes, even if worn with exhaustion, are quite beautiful. The balcony light illuminates them just enough for Christoph to lose himself in them. Till smiles faintly, blowing a stream of smoke from his lips before saying, “What's on your mind?”

“You,” Christoph says, and then straightens up from the railing, bringing his folded arms down from atop it. Till huffs a laugh—almost a drunken giggle, really.

“Now, I'm not surprised by that.”

Saying nothing, Christoph averts his gaze to down below; the lights in Tägtgren's pool illuminates the water. The vibrant blue is pretty. There are two lines of soft, white landscape lights, running along the stone and grass border on both sides of the pool platform. Christoph fixes his gaze on the hot tub, which is connected to the pool—it's made of stone, decorated with small boulders and dim, atmospheric lighting. A few stones are missing, which creates a small waterfall that descends into the pool. Plumes of steam rise up from the heated water, into the coolness of the night air.

“It's been probably ten years since I've been in a hot tub,” Christoph muses, leaning back in over the railing.

The sound of Till taking a drag of the cigarette and blowing out the smoke occupies the pause of silence, before he speaks lowly, pressing his shoulder against Christoph's as he flicks the ashes off his cigarette, “Well, would you like to do it again? We can take advantage of the opportunity to use Tägtgren's hot tub.”

“I didn't exactly bring my swimsuit to the dinner party,” Christoph remarks, smirking faintly as he fixes his glassy eyes on the other man. Till shrugs, gazing down at the glowing pool as he says, “You don't need one.”

Taking a final drag of his cigarette, Till puts it out on the railing and then looks at the other with a smile as he exhales the smoke in a stream, angled away from Christoph's face.

“Come on.”

He holds out a hand. Christoph eyes him briefly, unsure what he was implying, though he reaches out to take Till's hand regardless.

 

Along the walk to the backdoor on the first floor, Till kisses Christoph's hand. Blushing heavily while remaining bashfully silent, he lets Till pull him outside. Till's cane taps noisily on the stone pathway as they approach the hot tub. Christoph finds himself drawn in by the steam curling up, an invitation to enter the hot water. When Till releases his hand, he glances over to see Till pulling at his bow tie. Christoph reaches out to take his cane—Till gives him an appreciative smile as he strips off his bow tie and then began to remove his suit coat.

Resting his cane on a nearby lounge chair, Christoph watches him let his coat fall to the stone tile. Then he unbuttons his white shirt, casting a glance back towards the other man. With a tilt of his head, Till motions him forward, saying with a smirk, “Come on, then. You don't plan on getting in with your suit on, do you?”

Christoph sighs and approaches him again—albeit unsteadily—to stand by his side. Reaching out, he adopts the responsibility to slide the button-up from Till's broad shoulders when he gets it undone, exposing a painting of varying scars. He folds it and then bends over to grab the suit coat from the floor. He pauses when Till grabs the articles of clothing from him—and then drops it back onto the stone ground. Christoph eyes him. Till just smiles, faintly, while working on his belt.

“Come on,” he urges, nudging the other man with his elbow. Christoph hesitates, casting a glance back towards the house, before he reaches up to begin reluctantly undoing his tie. Following Till's example, he eventually removes his suit coat and button-up shirt, shuddering from the cool night air that attacks his exposed skin, while Till removes his dress shoes and then his socks. He begins to step out of his slacks—but then he pauses, reaching out to grab onto Christoph's arm. Pausing, Christoph sees Till swaying slightly. Then he laughs and says lowly, “Christoph, I'm too drunk to undress standing.”

“What... Do you want me to do,” Christoph says, unsure considering he is still quite drunk himself. Till shouldn't rely on him when he can barely use his legs himself. Till huffs.

“Just, hold on. I'm going to use you for stability.”

Saying nothing, Christoph lets him keep that hold on his bicep while he steps out of his slacks, one leg at a time, exposing the scar encompassing his knee. Now wearing only his underwear, Till drops his pants onto the ground among their other pieces of clothing with his belt noisily meeting the stone. Christoph removes his shoes as well, and then his own slacks. He staggers to the side slightly, gaining a reflexive reach from Till, though he manages to undress without bodily harm.

Above all else, standing here only in his black briefs, Christoph is embarrassed. He feels exposed and vulnerable like this, standing nearly naked in his boss' backyard, but when Till begins to climb into the hot tub, he's distracted from the uneasiness. Till thankfully doesn't slip, though Christoph is ready to grab him if necessary. Till sighs heavily when he gets situated on the seat covered with decorative mosaic stones, which makes for a smooth surface. Christoph sets his hands on the edge of the spacious, stone hot tub and lowers himself into it, gasping when the hot water surrounds him and immediately replaces the chill clinging to his body.

Laughing lowly, Till reaches out for him when he enters the water completely. He curls his hand around his wrist while Christoph melts with closed eyes, enveloped by the euphoric warmth. Cracking his eyes open again, Christoph looks at Till, who's smiling. He sluggishly moves closer to him, encouraged by the grasp on his wrist. Till pulls him against his side with an arm around his waist. Christoph rests his head against his shoulder and closes his eyes again. A heat rises to his cheeks when Till presses their knees together underneath the steaming water.

Saying nothing, Christoph shifts against him, getting more comfortable. Till kissing him on the head has his heart leaping. He cracks his eyes open to look at themselves under the water—he stares at Till's broad hand curled around his naked side, thumb stroking over pale skin. He feels a little flustered, in this position. Till is so easily affectionate with him, and he has yet to become accustomed to it, even if they've been like this for many months now.

Panning his gaze up to the starry sky, Christoph feels lightheaded, flustered, and slightly overwhelmed, but he also does not feel uncomfortable, or afraid, or vulnerable. He often finds himself more at ease around Till. He never anticipated that it would come to this. Glancing over at Till, he notices that his dilated green eyes are trained on him. Christoph gives him the faintest smile and says quietly, “Thank you for loving me.”

He didn't intend to vocalize his thoughts. He shuts his mouth, teeth grit, and looks at Till with faint shock on his face. Embarrassment flares up. Till blinks and then smiles. He leans in to kiss Christoph on the brow, before planting one against his cheek.

“You're very honest when you're drunk,” Till muses, resting his forehead against the side of his head with a broad smile on his face. Christoph lets him bear his weight against him, his embarrassed horror gradually diminishing, replaced with a warm fondness. Till squeezes his arm around him and says softly, “You deserve that love.”

Face contorting slightly with a grimace, Christoph's inner self screams denying protests to that statement. He opens his mouth, and then closes it. He says nothing, his hands curling into light fists. Before Till could notice, he unfurls them and reaches out to set one over Till's muscular thigh, as a distraction from his own feelings and Till noticing his internal struggle. Smiling weakly, Christoph watches himself stroke his broad hand down to his knee—the unscathed one. Till angles his head to kiss him gently on the jaw. Christoph shudders in his embrace.

Invigorated by that, Till begins to slowly mouth at his jaw and neck, his full lips soft against his flushed skin. Christoph lets out a shaky breath and fixes his uneasy gaze on the windows of the house, anxious that they'll be seen. But Till's calloused hand moving over his thigh, up to his stomach, and then to his chest has Christoph relaxing slightly, distracted. He shifts, eyes becoming lidded when Till gropes at his chest. Pinching one of his nipples between his curled forefinger and thumb, Till tightens his arm around his side and holds him close while biting at his jaw—this earns the first soft noise from Christoph.

“Till,” Christoph begins shakily, drawing his hand back up his thigh as he says, “Should we really be doing this here?”

He tenses up and sucks in a slight breath when Till begins to further toy with his nipple, his biting moving from his jaw to his ear. Christoph coils up with tension when he bites his earlobe between his teeth, a shock traversing down his spine. He shudders and it encourages Till to do it again, biting harder this time while squeezing at his chest with a firm hand. Arousal easily comes; drunkenness tends to accelerate it for Christoph. He moans quietly, eyes closing with his hand tightening on Till's thigh.

The reluctance to engage in this in Peter's hot tub is flung away, replaced by lust and willingness when Till draws back and then angles his head to kiss him, his broad hand sliding up over his back. Christoph winds his arm around Till's neck, hand splaying out over his shoulder as he eagerly kisses him back, turning his head to deepen it. The sounds of their heated kissing joins the noise of the shifting water, the chirping of nearby crickets.

It doesn't last too long; Till breaks the kiss to mouth at his jaw and neck for a moment longer before saying lowly with his hand sliding down from his chest, to touch at his soft abs, “Sit on my lap, C.”

Flushed and compliant, Christoph moves to kneel over his thighs, the water moving noisily around them. The smooth mosaic stone makes it easier on his knees when he gets settled on his thighs, curling his hands comfortably around Till's sides. He shyly meets his gaze. Till is watching him with blatant lust in his eyes. He cups Christoph's jaw with both hands and pulls him into another kiss.

Immediately the kiss becomes heated, with firm overlapping of their lips that soon has Christoph becoming overwhelmed and lightheaded, from his flustered state, his lingering intoxication, and the heat of the water. He gasps in a breath when Till breaks the kiss to mouth down his throat. Suddenly _biting_ down where his neck and shoulder connect has Christoph jerking, hands squeezing around Till's sides. Till huffs against his skin and does it again on his shoulder, gentler this time. Christoph rises up partially on his knees to grant him a better reach when Till begins to kiss down his chest.

He brings his wide hands down Christoph's sides, and then around to hold his back as he mouths at his chest. Across the few birthmarks that decorate his pale skin, and then over his nipples, hard from the stimulation and the contrasting cool air that surrounds them. Christoph moans, watching with lidded eyes as Till bites firmly at his nipple, his eyes closed and brow furrowed.

Tonguing at it, he repeatedly catches it between his teeth, drawing shudders from Christoph. He then kisses his way to his other and begins to give it the same attention while running his hands down over the expanse of his back. Christoph brings his arm around him and grabs a handful of his lower mohawk segments, holding him firmly while Till continues mouthing at his chest.

Eyes downcast, Christoph notices through the shimmering water that Till is hard, the outline of his erection prominent through his wet, clinging underwear. Reaching down, Christoph watches Till's closed eyes as he grips his cock through the layer of fabric, squeezing his fingers tightly around it like he had done earlier in the lounge. Till hums lowly against his chest, a vibration against his skin. His brow furrows again, eyes opening to look up at Christoph.

Christoph twitches when Till runs his hands down his back to slip them past the waistband of his briefs, to grab firmly at his ass, blunt fingernails digging in. Biting his lip, Christoph doesn't truly pause and consider what they're doing. Rather than suggest saving this for later, he impatiently curls his fingers into the waistband of Till's underwear and brings it down to reveal more dark hair that trails down from his belly button, as well as his thick cock that arches up now that it is no longer confined.

With lidded eyes, Christoph watches Till's face as he slowly, lovingly runs his hand down from his hairy belly to grip his shaft again. Till leans in to begin mouthing and biting at his nipples again, which has Christoph exhaling shakily and catching his bottom lip between his teeth to repress any noise that attempts to emerge. Meanwhile, he keeps his gaze downcast, trained on his hand wrapped around Till's beautiful cock. He watches himself touch him with slow pulls of his hand, the flushed skin repeatedly wrinkling around the pink head with every upstroke.

“Do you still mean what you said earlier?” Till speaks lowly then, resting his forehead against Christoph's heaving chest. Christoph pauses, furrowing his brow. He hums, prompting him to explain. Till presses a soft kiss to his chest and murmurs, “You still want to please me with your mouth, C?”

Blushing, Christoph hesitates to answer at first, embarrassed. He wets his lips with a drift of his tongue and then speaks quietly, saying, “Yes. Do you want me to, T?”

“...Yes.”

“I'm not going to risk drowning for the sake of it.”

Laughing sharply, Till draws back to direct a grin his way. Christoph smiles faintly. Slipping his hands from Christoph's briefs, he squeezes his sides instead and says with a smile, “I wouldn't ask you to. Let me get up.”

Silently, Christoph moves off of his lap, watching Till rise from the hot tub seat to instead sit on the outer ring. Immediately, the cold air latches onto his overheated skin, causing a wave of goosebumps. He slips off his underwear entirely, surprising Christoph. He casts a quick glance to the house, nervous now that Till is completely naked, outside, in their boss' backyard. Till seems unconcerned.

Till spreading his thighs apart and beckoning him with an arched brow makes Christoph's stomach twist into knots. This always makes him nervous, even if he's drunk. He may want to, but he hesitates purely out of uncertainty in himself. Till reaches out to cup his chin when he comes within reach, looking down into his wide blue eye as he murmurs, “You don't have to push yourself. You know how this goes, C. Your comfort is more important than my own pleasure.”

“I want to,” Christoph says, nearly a slur now that his effort to speak clearly is overruled by his attempt to repress his nervousness. Till's warm hand on his jaw is comforting. He leans forward into it, eyes closing, and it has Till chuckling. He strokes his thumb down his cheek and then says, “If you change your mind, that's alright. If you do, we can change places.”

Opening his eyes again, Christoph looks up at him with surprise. Till just smiles. Christoph stares up at him, admiring his handsome, flushed features. His mohawk is beginning to come unraveled. It's cute. Christoph swallows hard, exhales deeply, and shifts closer between Till's legs. Drifting his hands up Till's calves, Christoph kisses him on the knee, eyes closing briefly. Till's hand strokes up over his short mohawk, and then down the side of his head in an intimate touch.

Training his gaze on Till's flushed length, Christoph recalls the times he has successfully brought Till to orgasm through oral in the past. How rewarding it felt, seeing Till come undone because of _him_. It excites Christoph, recalling the expressions on his face, the noises he made, the way he praised him. He reaches out to grip the base of his cock, stroking up once to see and feel it strain in his hand, flushed a deep pink around the thick head. Heat curls in his belly, admiring it, until Till shifting to sit closer to the edge of the ring jerks him out of his staring. He peeks up to look into his patient green eyes, his face burning with his embarrassment. He then leans in.

With a focused, furrowed brow and a twisting stomach, Christoph first mouths at the head, tasting Till. Despite having done this with him a few times already, he's still warming up to doing so without a certain bashfulness. Before Till, sex was hardly an interest of his. The last time he engaged in anything sexual, it was back in the eighties when he was still young.

Till's hand stroking over the back of his head, his feet pressed to Christoph's folded legs under the hot water, comforts him and has him mouthing more enthusiastically down from the head, over the flushed shaft. Peeking up while he does, Christoph meets his eyes and maintains eye contact as he kisses back up. Then he focuses on taking it into his mouth, his eyes closing. Till grunts from above, and it has Christoph shifting closer, invigorated by the noise.

Running one bashful hand up over Till's soft belly to his midsection, Christoph begins to shyly move his head back and forth, maintaining tight suction with sucked in cheeks as he does. Till lets out another deep noise, while clutching at Christoph's hand on his stomach—leaning over, he brings it up to his mouth to press firm kisses to his fingers and palm. Christoph falters slightly, flustered by the gesture.

Till gives one final kiss to his knuckles and then brings his hand down to rest it on his thigh. Christoph continues again, attempting to take more in his mouth with his brow knit and cheeks flushed a deep red. Till isn't small and he's not quite accustomed to this, so it takes some effort, though he manages to take more than the pink head into his mouth—Till seems to appreciate it. He's tense under Christoph, hand squeezing a gentle fistful of his mohawk as he moves his head. He moans occasionally, a deep noise in his throat that turns Christoph on and joins the rather embarrassing, vulgar sounds of blowing him.

Forcefully taking his thick cock too far into his mouth has him choking, his back curling and eyes clenching shut. Drool drips down from his bottom lip to join the steaming hot water below. Till strokes at his cheek with a hand, saying lowly, “Don't force yourself, my love.”

Shyly, Christoph doesn't respond and instead tries again, repressing the urge to gag as he bobs his head slowly, taking almost half into his mouth now. Till hums lowly, a soft moan, as he runs his hand up over Christoph's mohawk again.

“I want you to touch yourself,” Till speaks lowly, suddenly, jolting Christoph out of his focus. He pauses, and then hesitates for only a moment before bringing his hand down from Till's thigh to shyly squeeze at his hard cock through his black briefs. The divided attention has him faltering slightly.

After squeezing and rubbing at himself for a minute, still too bashful to escalate, Till speaks again, commanding in a murmur, “I want to see you. Show me, and continue touching yourself.”

Face and ears burning with a heat, Christoph draws back from between Till's thighs, looking up at him with embarrassed, glassy eyes as he shyly slides his hands under the waistband of his briefs to draw them down his pale thighs. His hard cock springs up, the hot water enveloping it completely, which has Christoph melting slightly. Till hums and goes on to say, “Switch places with me.”

He moves back down into the warmth, meeting Christoph's surprised gaze and tilting his head towards his previous spot. Christoph licks his thin, swollen lips and then rises from the hot tub to take a seat on the rim like Till did. He shudders when the night air clings to his dripping skin, replacing the heat immediately. With his thighs pressed together, he hesitates at first, hands in fists, before Till moves closer with a noisy shift of the hot water. He grips his knees, gently. He slowly opens his legs, his green eyes flicking up to train on Christoph's face.

“Till,” Christoph breathes, letting him look between his thighs. Till stares at him, admiring the cute, trimmed dark hair that sat above his erection, as well as his cock that is flushed a deep pink, both from his arousal and the hot water. Till strokes his hands down his shins, meeting his gaze again as he murmurs, “Go on. I want to see my pretty boy touch himself.”

Christoph looks at him with embarrassment, his heart pounding. He nods. Drawing one hand back, he props it against the stone behind himself for stability and brings his other hand in to curl his fingers timidly around his shaft.

With his eyes training on Till's face, watching the way he stares, Christoph began to slowly pull at himself. His thighs clench up. Till notices and smiles faintly. He slides his hands up from his shins to run them over his thighs, squeezing them gently. Christoph shudders and lets out a shaky exhale, eyes becoming lidded as he continues touching himself with gradual, slow strokes of his hand.

Having Till watch him so intimately has heat burning in his belly. They've never done it like this before; Till has never _ordered_ him to pleasure himself like this. It's something new—it's something _exciting_. He finds himself moaning more openly, tongue loosened from both the alcohol and his incredible arousal. Till watches his face, silently admiring his weak cloudy and blue eyes, his thin lips that have fallen open, his dotted cheeks that are flushed heavily.

“Till,” Christoph murmurs, his hand clenching into a fist against the stone. He begins to stroke his cock at a faster pace, his hand squeezing around the shaft. His thighs clench repeatedly under Till's hands, his stomach heaving and flexing. Till suddenly drawing his hand away with a grasp around his wrist has Christoph cracking his eyes open.

Fixing his intense green eyes on his dazed face, Till strokes his hands up Christoph's relaxing thighs, saying with a faint smile, “You did so well, C. Thank you for indulging me.”

Nodding weakly, Christoph sluggishly lowers back down into the water, his movements heavy and slow. Till immediately curls his arms around him, pulling him against himself while he kisses at his forehead and cheek. Christoph hums and lazily draws an arm around his shoulders, hand resting flatly over his shoulder blade.

While Till kisses at his jaw and neck, he murmurs against his skin, “Let me make love to you. I want you so badly, Christoph.”

“What?” Christoph says dazedly, with a furrowed brow and red cheeks, “Here? A-Are you sure? What if he comes back soon?”

“Knowing what I know,” Till begins, biting gently at his earlobe in-between his words, “He won't be back until early in the morning.”

“And... What do you know?” Christoph murmurs, becoming lax in his arms the more he bites and mouths at his skin. Till runs his broad hands up over his back, clutching him close to himself as he says, lips pressed to his throat, “I know he has a woman. I know he didn't invite her to the party because he doesn't want her mingling with our kind. I know he planned to see her afterward, because he told me she wanted to take him out.”

“Couldn't you have told me that from the start?” Christoph sighs, tightening his arm around his shoulders, “I had been concerned this entire time.”

“Sorry,” Till chuckles, and then says in a softer tone, “We could always just move to one of his guest bedrooms if you're more comfortable with that.”

Hesitating, Christoph looks up at the stars in the night sky with his bottom lip between his teeth. He clings to Till silently, until he sighs and mumbles, “Maybe I wouldn't mind it. Staying here.”

“Good,” Till murmurs with a sly smile, and then leans in, head angled, to kiss him softly. Christoph watches his face as he slowly, gradually returns it, before his eyes slide shut. The mood evolves into something tender and passionate again. Till begins to kiss him heavily, with open-mouthed purses of his lips that the other man returns willingly, until their tongues are together and their breath becomes short and heavy. Till runs one hand down the length of his back, holding him with the other.

Christoph jerks slightly when his hand and his broad fingers descend lower still, to touch him in intimate places that only has his embarrassment soaring. Till hums lowly into the kiss, attempting to distract the other man from the discomfort of it by bringing his other hand around to grip his stiff length. Christoph remains tense while Till touches him, though it does succeed in distracting him from his fingers.

 

Christoph ends up in Till's lap again, his back to him. Engulfed in the hot water, he's flushed everywhere and panting slightly from their previous kissing. Behind him, Till is silent, stroking his hand up the length of his partner's back while gripping the base of his erection with the other. With his hands set on Till's knees, Christoph uses the stability to raise himself enough for him to rub his cock against him. It has a shiver running up his spine, his head dropping forward and eyes widening, trained on the rippling water.

Holding Christoph's hip, Till eases him down slowly. With ruddy cheeks and a furrowed brow, Christoph gradually sits back on Till's lap, sucking in a sharp breath as the head of his cock eases inside of him. Till's hand slides around his hip to grip his hard length as Christoph takes the rest of his shaft in with a careful lowering of his body, letting out a slight strained noise. Silently, Till kisses at his neck and shoulder, wrapping a muscular arm around his midsection, hand curling around his side. Christoph melts slightly against him, comforted by the embrace.

“You're doing so well, Christoph,” Till murmurs, “If it hurts, we can stop.”

“Considering how... _Large_ you are,” Christoph says breathlessly, blushing from the praise as he readjusts his folded legs, “I think discomfort is to be expected.”

“...Move whenever you're ready.”

Saying nothing, Christoph just nods. To gain better stability, Christoph leans forward, breaking the warm embrace, and sets his hands on the seat between Till's thighs. He begins to raise himself, releasing a shaky breath as he does. Till rests his calloused hands around Christoph's sides, eyes downcast to watch as he moves. Sitting back down slowly, Christoph lets out a slight noise and bites his lip, brow knit. Till's hands stroking up over his sides and then around to rest on his belly is nice and has him relaxing slightly.

Only when Christoph really began to move on his lap does Till let out a soft groan, his hands squeezing around his sides. Panting, Christoph, invigorated by the noise, strokes one hand down from Till's knee to his shin as he continues raising and lowering himself. Till sweeps his gaze up over Christoph's flushed, pale body, glancing over his scars, his birthmarks, his shifting muscles. He's beautiful and Till continues watching silently, hands running up over the flexing muscles in his back.

The water begins to smack against the tiled walls of the hot tub as Christoph increases the pace of his movement. Soft noises emerge from his throat, escaping past grit teeth as he rides the other man. Till then reaches around him, gently grabbing both of his forearms and carefully easing his arms behind his back. Christoph focuses on not losing his stability on the seat as he lets the other man curl his arms behind his back, locking them together with one big hand wrapping around both wrists.

Bringing a muscular arm around his chest, Till then curls his hand around his throat and pulls him back against his front. Christoph melts back against him, eyes fluttering shut with his mouth falling open. Till bites at the curve of his ear, drawing out a sharp gasp from the other man as he begins to rock his hips up into him. Christoph shakes on top of him, raising his lower half slightly for longer strokes, his knees planted firmly on the tiled seat.

“Oh, God, Till,” Christoph moans, and in response, Till tightens his hand around his throat. Restrained completely, Christoph can only lean back against Till as he's fucked, his heart hammering and stomach simmering with an intense heat. His cock is painfully hard and neglected in the hot water, waiting for touch that has yet to come. Till continues biting at his ear and kissing at his neck, his breathing short as well.

“Good boy,” Till growls, teeth pressed to the curve of his ear. Christoph shudders and moans, eyes rolling shut.

“Till,” he whimpers, hands clenched into fists behind his back. The discomfort of being restrained licks at the corners of his mind, but the suffocating excitement easily overrules it, entirely. Till is in complete control and it's exhilarating, it's arousing, it's frightening, but most of all, it's _right_. Christoph has conflicting feelings of _yes_ and _no_ , but above all else, he knows this is how they should be. Till is his leader, his commander, his master, his _partner_. And he is helpless, with this incredible desire to _please him_. To give himself to him. Christoph wants him so badly in every way.

Till releasing his throat and reaching down to grip his cock has his thoughts scattering, replaced with only _oh God, yes_ , and _please_ just as Till begins to touch him with a tight grip. Dazedly, amongst his moaning, Christoph lifts his head to watch Till's big hand stroke over his angry red cock, keeping a fast, firm hold even as he begins to wiggle and fidget on his lap.

Collapsing back against him, Christoph cries out, his body arching, knees raising from their resting position on the seat. He whimpers and twists on top of Till, nails digging into his palms as the other man continues pulling at his aching cock, until his ropes of ejaculation shoot out into the disturbed water. Utterly silent with locked teeth and clenched eyes, Christoph's hips twitch forward into Till's slowing hand, his chest and stomach heaving.

“Till, please,” Christoph whines, a sluggish slur, as Till continues stroking at his sensitive, spent cock. Till hums and kisses slowly at his neck while he lets him go, drawing his hand up over his heaving tummy.

“You're so good for me, Christoph,” Till murmurs, his deep voice heavy with lust. Resting back against the other man, Christoph closes his eyes and says nothing. For a moment, Till lets him recover while petting at his stomach and chest with slow rubs of his hand. Releasing Christoph's wrists, he then wraps both arms around him and asks, “Do you want to get out?”

“No,” Christoph says, running his hands over Till's forearms, “You haven't finished yet, have you?”

“No.”

“Then keep going, T.”

Turning his head in towards Christoph's, Till presses a soft kiss to his temple and then murmurs, “Alright. But let's move, my legs are stiff.”

Christoph is taken off-guard when Till shifts underneath him. Manhandling him gently, Till slips out from underneath him. Realizing where this is going, Christoph moves to kneel on the seat, knees against smooth multicolored tile. He faces the rim of the hot tub. Christoph sets his hands on the stone and watches Till rise with a shift of the water.

A firm hand grasping the back of his neck and gently forcing him down has Christoph leaning over, setting his elbows against the stone. A heat rises to his face when Till grips his cock and rubs against him. He watches Till's face as he reenters him with a slow arch of his hips, his hands sliding up over his sides. Till's jaw clenches, his intense green eyes roaming up the length of Christoph's back to meet his gaze.

Planting a hand against the edge of the hot tub, Till leans in over the other man to kiss him on the temple. It has Christoph smiling. He looks at Till with loving, lidded eyes before fixing his stare on his lips. Till angles his head and tenderly presses their mouths together. Christoph brings his hand up to curl it around the back of his head, fingers among disheveled black locks, fallen out of their previous gelled state. He can feel Till's facial hair against his chin as they kiss. Till kisses him with firm purses of his lips, smiling faintly into it, and then draws back from him.

Running his broad hand down over Christoph's tummy, Till then begins to rock his hips again, his other hand sliding up along the slope of his spine. Christoph lets out a soft noise, sliding his knees further apart to allow deeper thrusts. He jerks forward slightly with each connection of their bodies. Hanging his head, Christoph bears his weight against his forearms, his mouth agape and cheeks flushed a striking shade of red. Till drags his blunt fingernails down the length of his shifting back, leaving raised lines as he snaps his hips against Christoph's ass, driving his cock into his body again and again with a noise emerging from the other man following each thrust.

Soon enough, the winding pleasure in his gut intensifies. He begins to fuck Christoph at a faster, harder pace, now clutching at his sides, pulling him back into every buck of his hips. Fingertips digging into the stone, Christoph moans sharply with each connection of their bodies. He collapses forward, his forehead pressed to his forearm. His mouth hangs open with drool beginning to seep from his bottom lip, eyes shut and brow furrowed. His gasping moans are overlapped by the primal sound of their fucking, and the splashing of disturbed water. Grunting himself, Till digs his nails into Christoph's sides, his teeth locked.

Christoph weakly looks back at him and watches his body sway with each thrust, his chest heaving, his handsome face contorted with pleasure. Biting his lip, Christoph reaches out to touch at his chest and belly, feeling body hair and clenching muscle as his hand wanders. Till suddenly pulls out then, surprising the other man. Gripping his slick cock, Till touches himself with a tight fist while asking gruffly, “Do you still want me to come on your pretty face, C?”

Eyes widening, Christoph nods. He lowers back into the hot water, kneeling on the tiled seat while Till moves to stand on it. Looking up at Till with wide cloudy and blue eyes, Christoph curls a hand around his calf, admiring his muscular body dripping with water, his dark body hair flattened and chest heaving. His beautiful cock is flushed a deep red, leaking a steady line of pre-come. His mohawk is disheveled, his unshaven face open and submissive, his pretty green eyes weaker than usual. Christoph watches him tug at his cock with a broad hand, while curling the other around the back of Christoph's head.

Willing and eager, Christoph remains kneeling with his hands around Till's calves, his gaze fixed up on his face. Till, meanwhile, looks down upon him, admiring the haunting cloudiness in his right eye, the other a beautiful icy blue that alternates between staring at his cock in his hand, and looking up into his eyes. The visual alone is enough to bring him to that precipice—Till comes with a heavy grunt, his brow furrowing and jaw clenching. Thick ropes of ejaculation shoot out from his cock to land across Christoph's cheeks, his chin, his eyes, his lips.

A shuddering breath rushes from Till's lungs. He stares at Christoph's debauched face as he slowly pulls at his flushed shaft, easing the remainder out onto his chest. Surprising him, Christoph reaches up to slide his hands over his thighs, his eyes remaining closed considering they're currently dirtied with Till's come. He grips Till's length, replacing his hand with his own, and leans in to take the head into his mouth. Till grunts and clutches a fistful of his short mohawk. He watches Christoph nurse at the head, his cheeks sucked in and brow knit. Till moans lowly, a deep vibration in his throat.

Drawing back with a final drift of his tongue against the slit of his cock, Christoph then licks his lips, and reaches up to wipe the semen from his cheeks and eyes. He sucks it into his mouth and then washes his face off with the water. He looks up at Till with a red face and shy eyes. Till lets out a long breath, and then huffs a laugh. Christoph curls his hands around Till's calves again, and then leans in to bashfully kiss him on the thigh.

“Let's get out now,” Till says lowly, petting Christoph's head, “Before we pass out from heat stroke.”

 

* * *

 

At eight in the morning, Till jolts to consciousness from within the chasm of his nightmare. Heart pounding and body crawling with discomfort, he rapidly glances around to absorb his surroundings. He relaxes, noticing the sunlight pouring across the ceiling from the window above the queen-sized bed. Christoph is in his arms, underneath the covers. Till takes a few deep breaths and pans his gaze down from the back of Christoph's head, over his neck, his shoulder blades, his bicep—all decorated sparingly with cute moles and jagged, telltale scars.

Smiling faintly, Till silently enjoys the moment—spooning the other man comfortably under the plush comforter of Peter's guest bed, their legs tangled, hands limply resting together in front of Christoph's stomach. Sunlight is illuminating the bed, as well as his partner's body that moves slightly with each slow breath. Till feels so whole, so soon after his typical night terror. He continues smiling, even as he leans in to gently, carefully kiss him on the nape of his neck. He presses his nose just under his ear, kissing him there a few times with his hand sliding in to hold Christoph's tummy. He feels his soft abs against his palm.

It doesn't take much to wake the other man. Even if he wasn't attempting to, Till manages to wake him up by gently sliding his broad hand up from his stomach to rest over his midsection. Christoph shifts sluggishly, and then suddenly jolts in his arms, as if shocked—his hand jerks up to grab onto Till's wrist, white-knuckled, his entire body locking with tension. But then Till carefully twists his hand out of his grasp and murmurs with his lips pressed to his ear, “It's me, love.”

Then Christoph immediately relaxes in his arms, hearing him. He sighs, bringing a hand up to rub at his eyes. Till kisses over his ear, down to his neck, while petting at his chest and stomach.

“Good morning,” he says lowly, lifting his head to watch Christoph's profile. Christoph looks exhausted and drained, his cold blue eye flicking up to look at Till.

“Is it?”

Till laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys please dont defile Peter's hot tub he was being nice


	15. Mit Dir Stehen Die Sekunden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of alcohol, good company, and the right circumstance lead to special outcomes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "With you the seconds stand still"
> 
> YEAH MORE SMUT JUST TAK E IT it's what (almost) all of us have been expecting and waiting for anyways
> 
> Since I ran out of lyrics from Ich Will, I'm switching to another Rammstein song I'm sure you'll all recognize. It's relevance will become clear later.

“C! Wait!” Paul calls, straightening up from the railing with intention to follow them back into the house, a frown replacing his broad grin. An arm winding around his waist stops him. With a furrow of his brow, he flicks his gaze over to meet Richard's stern eyes.

“Why do you care? He's an asshole. I'm sure he'd rather flirt with T than deal with us.”

Paul slumps back against the railing, sighing. He rolls his eyes away from Richard, to the view of the glowing pool down below, saying, “I like hanging out with him... At least, I used to...”

“See, _used_ to. If you _used_ to, why do you still try?” Richard says, shifting closer to press their sides together, sliding his free hand into the pocket of his slacks, his other lazily holding his empty champagne glass. Paul shrugs and spins his glass in his hands, mumbling, “Because I hope that if I try enough, C will let himself have fun.”

“...Why? Why do you give a shit. He obviously doesn't.”

“We used to have fun, that's why,” Paul remarks, training his glassy eyes on Richard's, “And it was fun having fun. He's happy when he's having fun, and that's what matters now, at this point.”

“Why do you care if he's happy or not? He only cares about T,” Richard scoffs, arching a brow. Paul scowls weakly.

“He wasn't always this bad, R,” he says, his slurring voice lowered, his eyes firm, “Before you joined us, he had a semblance of _someone_ in there. But you know how it is, in this line of work— _especially_ with what he has to do. To cope, he withdrew, and it reshaped his personality into something else. I know that he's there, but in a misshapen form. He didn't only care about T in the past. And I'm sure even now he doesn't. He cares about others, even you, to a degree. That's _C_ in there, hidden deep within those layers.”

He pauses, glances down to his empty champagne glass, and lets out a long exhale. Beside him, Richard is silent, his eyes hard and trained on the other man. Shrugging, Paul goes on to say with his gaze downcast, voice slow and sluggish from his intoxication, “And... I think there are some other things that fucked him up, too. I doubt even T knows what those are. I think before the traumas of all this shit, his mind was already all scrambled, y'know? Everyone's got a rough past.”

Interrupting their discussion, and Paul's mindless rambling, Ollie steps out from the fray and onto the balcony, joining the pair. They both glance over to see him approach with his hands in his pockets, his face stony as usual. Paul smiles lopsidedly and says, “Hey, O. You look like you've having a _great_ time.”

“It'll be more eventful now that I'm stuck with you two,” Ollie remarks, standing before them with an unamused expression. They both furrow their brow at him, confused.

“Why are you _stuck_ with us? You can easily just go sulk in some other corner,” Richard remarks, which has Paul giggling. Smirking, Richard glances towards him and elbows him playfully. Paul stumbles to the side from it, unsteady on his feet. Reaching out, Richard grabs his arm, sighing, as if he's dealing with a child—which, really, he is. Ollie waits for them to settle before stating flatly, “I'm acting as supervision.”

“Oh, come on,” Paul complains, throwing up a hand, “We're not being careless!”

“You almost fell off the balcony five minutes ago,” Richard counters, which has Paul slapping weakly at his chest while shushing him. Laughing, Richard bears his weight into Paul, which has the smaller man pushing his hands against him, attempting to shove him away, though instead he just drops his champagne glass. It shatters once it meets the balcony floor. Ollie purses his lips and then turns to reenter the house, with intention to find a dustpan. Richard bursts out a laugh and Paul slurs out a curse. He crouches down to begin picking up piece after piece, until Richard grabs him by the shoulders of his suit coat and tugs him back up. Paul staggers back onto his feet weakly, pliant to any manhandling. He looks up at Richard dazedly.

“Don't do that, you idiot,” Richard says, pushing him back against the railing. He takes Paul's hand in his own and unfurls his fingers to forcefully take the glass shards. Paul pouts.

“I made a mess, Richard. I gotta clean it up.”

“No, you don't,” Richard says, smiling slightly, his own glassy eyes fixing on Paul's. Paul looks up at him with a puckered expression, his cheeks flushed and eyes narrowed. Richard snorts and reaches up to pat him on the head, ruffling his hair.

“You're adorable,” he says, grinning broadly. Paul swats his hand away, mumbling with a weak glare, “Shut up. I'm not. I'm a badass.”

“Uh huh.”

 

Sometime later, the trio are wandering the crowded living room and adjoined dining room. Ollie interjects whenever the two of them reach for any sort of alcoholic beverage, instead forcing glasses of water into their hands (Richard refuses to drink the water purely out of pettiness, while Paul will drink anything given to him). 

Paul manages to get Ollie to chat a bit by asking him sports related questions, considering he knows he's into that shit—though Ollie soon becomes uninterested, once Paul starts asking asinine questions: “Do you watch any women's sports, O?”, “Are the women hot?”, “Do you think guys jerk off to it?”, “Have you?”

Now standing at the display of food, Paul tries out the different desserts offered with appalling failures to insert the food into his mouth, while Richard watches with a smirk. Though Paul's focus is diverted when he notices Till guiding Christoph to the nearby staircase—they're obviously drunk. Christoph is grinning and Till is repeatedly stumbling into him. Seeing that look on Christoph's face has Paul smiling. Noticing his smile, Richard follows his gaze to watch the pair as well.

“Well, he's looking rather human,” Richard comments. Paul snorts, witnessing Christoph attempt to ascend the stairs while helping Till up, who just _cannot_ regain his balance. Christoph is grinning and Till is laughing, and even collapses onto his hands and knees, his cane rolling down a few steps.

“Oh, my God,” Richard mutters, turning away to save himself from the secondhand embarrassment. Meanwhile, Paul is laughing, watching them with a broad grin. Beside him, Ollie is silent, witnessing their foolish display as well. Eventually, they make it to the top. They walk across the upper floor, blatantly unsteady on their feet, until they disappear into the hallway. Paul nudges Richard, who had been pressing his hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes.

“Where do you think they're going?” Paul asks in a murmur, leaning against Richard's side, cheek pressed to his shoulder. Richard sighs and drops his hand, looking over at the smaller man with a tired smile.

“Probably into one of the more private rooms to have a very mature, very _intimate_ discussion about German politics.”

“You know what we should do?” Paul muses with a growing smirk, his gray eyes wide and trained up on Richard's. Richard cocks his brow, an amused look on his face.

“Swear abstinence to the church?”

Laughing sharply, Paul shakes his head and then says with raised eyebrows, while poking Richard in the side, “ _Go_. We should go. Because I am sick of all these fucking people.”

“Then let's go,” Richard remarks, gently grabbing him by the wrist to cease his poking. Paul peers up at him with a furrowing brow.

“Are you sobering up or something?”

Richard smiles faintly with amusement, gazing into his hazy eyes.

“I haven't quite caught up to you yet. I hold my liquor better than you.”

Without waiting for the bickering that was sure to come, Richard looks away, towards Ollie who is texting somebody on his phone, one hand in the pocket of his slacks.

“O,” Richard speaks up, earning a glance from said man, “You ready to head out?”

“Yes,” Ollie answers, returning his phone to his pocket before beginning towards the front door silently. Richard sighs, knowing they should probably find Peter and thank him for the evening, but decides _fuck it_ , Peter doesn't care about that fabricated bullshit and will be fine with a call or an email the day after, if anything. Richard grabs Paul by the bicep and leads him, following after the taller man who doesn't wait up for them. Paul stumbles a bit and whines his name. Once they break out from the swarm of people and out onto the front steps, Richard lets his bicep go.

Glancing over, he meets Paul's frustrated gaze as he grabs his wrist instead. He presses his fingertips against Paul's palm, which has Paul's face straightening slightly. Richard then begins to descend the steps, tugging along the other man. They hurry up to join Ollie in the driveway, following him to his car.

Paul stumbles a few times but they make it in one piece. Ollie silently unlocks his car and climbs into the driver's seat. Richard has to struggle through opening the back door and shoving Paul into the backseat. Paul collapses against the other end with a grunt, his legs sprawled out and arm draped over his face. Richard slams the door shut. He rounds the car to get into the passenger's side to join Ollie at the front.

“So what kinda music you listen to?” Richard asks, reaching out to hit the eject button on the stereo. It whirrs helplessly. Ollie starts the car silently, and then states, “I don't listen to music.”

Peering over at the other man, Richard eyes his stoic face as he pulls out of the driveway and onto the road. He doesn't know much about Oliver, but he knows _enough_ to figure out that he's fucking weird. Paul mumbles something incoherent from the backseat, but Richard doesn't bother addressing it. He just rubs tiredly at his eyes, letting out a deep breath.

 

* * *

 

As soon as they enter Paul's apartment, at almost 22:00, Paul goes right for his kitchen. Richard makes sure the door is shut and locked before he removes his shoes and follows the other man. Paul is leaning heavily against the fridge, reaching up to grab his bottle of pineapple flavored rum from the top. He can barely manage it. Richard crosses his arms and watches him set it down on the counter, albeit clumsily, followed by a glass, and a can of chopped pineapples. He fills the glass with rum, ice, and an excessive amount of pineapples.

“Are you not drunk enough?” Richard asks with a cocked brow, watching him bring it to his mouth and take a drink, his gray eyes flicking over to him. Paul gestures to his liquor on the top of the fridge, lowering the glass of rum from his mouth to say with a lopsided smile, “I want to _stay_ drunk. Help yourself, R. You're too sober.”

Tiredly, Richard can't help but agree. He steps past the shorter man and grabs his vodka from the top of the fridge.

 

They end up seated at Paul's coffee table, surrounded by a swarm of blankets with their glasses of alcohol perched on said table, joined by the bottles of liquor if refills are necessary. With some difficulty, Richard is attempting to play _Perfect Dark_ on Paul's TV, but is repeatedly shot down by the opposing enemies. With a mouthful of pineapple, Paul bursts out laughing whenever Richard fails to land a single shot on the poorly rendered polygon-shaped enemies, and subsequently dies due to his mediocrity.

“This is such shit!” Richard snaps after his sixth death, which has Paul laughing again, nearly choking on a pineapple chunk. He reaches out to set his half-empty second glass of rum on the coffee table as he says in a slur, “Yeah, you suck.”

Tossing aside the controller, Richard reaches out to shove Paul with both hands, which has him limply splatting against the mound of blankets, considering he has no sense of balance at the moment. With a broad grin, Paul pushes his hands up against Richard's biceps when the other man leans over him to growl with wide, dangerous eyes and a poorly concealed grin, “Shut up, you little brat! You wouldn't be any fuckin' better this drunk! Plus I can only use one fucking hand!”

“Get off me and I'll prove you wrong!” Paul retorts with a giggling laugh, reaching up to press his hand against Richard's flushed face instead. Turning his head, Richard catches two of his fingers between his teeth and bites down, though not hard enough to hurt, which has Paul recoiling his arm with a whine. Richard grins, looking down at his pouting face. Paul's eyes are glassy and wide, his bottom lip jutting out, his cheeks flushed a drunken pink.

Reaching out, Richard cups his hand around Paul's lower face and squeezes his cheeks together repeatedly, making his lips bunch up. Brow furrowing, Paul looks up at him with confusion. Richard laughs aloud, grinning broadly as he continues playing with his face, saying past his laughter, “You're so cute, _Paulchen_. Even more when you're drunk and let me mess with you.”

Paul pushing his hand away and frowning has Richard's grin softening. Huffing, Paul looks away and mumbles, “I'm not cute, Richard. That's embarrassing.”

“Then what would you call yourself, huh?” Richard muses, now bearing part of his weight against the other man, with his elbow propped against the floor for stability. Paul fixes his gaze back up on Richard's, his brow knitting as he states, “Ugly.”

Surprised, Richard's grin disappears, his face hardening. Paul sighs heavily and grimaces as he pushes at Richard's shoulders, saying in a weak slur, “Get _off_ of me.”

Grabbing one of Paul's wrists, Richard pins his hand down against the blankets and bears more of his weight against him. Paul looks up at him with discomfort, his lips curled into a strained frown. Richard searches in his vulnerable, vaguely fearful eyes and asks lowly, “Do you seriously think you're ugly, or were you joking?”

“Do you have eyes?” Paul snaps, his cornered expression filling with impatient anger as he growls, “Fucking look at me! Do you seriously think I'm _handsome_ , or _cute_ looking like this, R? Get off of me!”

“Yes, _I do_ ,” Richard remarks in a raised voice, bearing more of his weight against him to keep him pinned despite his wiggling, while squeezing his wrist. Paul's scarred face twists with an embarrassed grimace. Richard releases his wrist to instead rest his hand along the side of Paul's head, fingers splaying out below his ear and into short hair, his thumb against his cheek. Paul looks up at him with shaky eyes, his brow knit and lips in a faint frown.

Searching his face, Richard's stern expression weakens slightly. He speaks in a low murmur.

“I think you are handsome, and I _do_ think you are cute—but not in an emasculating way, or anything. You just have that kinda face, y'know? Plus, your smile lights up my entire goddamn life,” he says, his green eyes soft. Paul's face is blank and unreadable, though it is no longer angry or uncomfortable. Richard goes on, saying with a smile, “Every time I look at you, I want to kiss you. I don't give a goddamn _shit_ about your scar, P. If anything, it makes you look like a badass. It shows that you're a tough guy. You survived _torture_ and probably death, too. Plus, I mean, people want you, right? _I do_. And... I witnessed both men and women comin' up to you at a club and flirting with you.”

Realizing that he's rambling, Richard sighs and then says with a weaker smile, searching in his eyes, “I just—I'm gay as fuck for you, and your _face_ is definitely part of the reason why. I dig that handsome-but-also-kinda-cute look.”

Paul's face remains straight, unmoving, until suddenly he snorts and looks away, grinning now. Richard lets out a breathless, relieved laugh, grinning himself, too. Paul fixes his gaze up on Richard's and mutters, “You _are_ gay as fuck.”

“Shut up. You are, too.”

Blushing, Paul presses his lips together, his smile becoming tight-lipped and embarrassed. Richard laughs again and muses fondly with softness in his eyes, his voice slightly slurring, “See, you're cute. You still get shy whenever I mention that you're gay, too.”

Turning his head away, Paul groans and mumbles with his eyes clenched, “Shut up.”

“I will on one condition.”

Sighing, Paul fixes his gaze back up on Richard's and mutters, “There's always a fucking condition with you.”

Broadly grinning, Richard slides his hand down from Paul's cheek, under his head to cradle the back of his neck, fingers in his hair. He sees the smile that begins to curl over Paul's lips just as he leans in to kiss them. Paul's hands then raise to hold his face, feeling the scratch of his stubble, his leg curling up and resting against Richard's side.

Their mouths purse together a few times, their smiles stifling the kiss. Briefly Richard pulls back, searches in Paul's warm eyes, and leans back in to kiss him again. Paul's hands lovingly holding his face has butterflies curling in Richard's stomach, sending heat up into his cheeks. He can barely contain his eagerness, his excitement to kiss him again. Richard has to restrain himself as he moves his lips against Paul's in a slow, intimate overlapping that the other man willingly returns.

With his heart beginning to race, Richard struggles to suppress his broad smile as they kiss. Paul is warm and pliable underneath him. He releases the slightest noise when Richard's hand deviates from holding the back of his neck to run down his side, feeling the heat of his body through the thin layer of his wrinkled button-up shirt. He shifts underneath him, leg sliding down over Richard's. Richard deepens the kiss with an angling of his head, gently parting Paul's lips with his tongue.

Making a soft noise, Paul furrows his brow and lets the kissing become open-mouthed and heavy. He continues clutching at Richard's face, fingers in his dark hair. Richard knows Paul tends to become overwhelmed, so he only indulges once more by sweeping his tongue into Paul's mouth, tasting pineapple, and then draws back. Instead, he ducks his head in to kiss at his neck and jaw, eyes closed and hand cupping around Paul's side.

“Richard,” Paul whispers quietly, voice slurred. He curls his arm lethargically around Richard's shoulders, while his other hand runs down his bicep. Richard hums and nips gently at his jaw and throat, lips soft and warm against his skin. Shuddering, Paul lets his head loll to the side, eagerly giving him more access. Richard shifts closer, a little surprised, albeit invigorated, by his willingness. He mouths at his neck with more enthusiasm, encouraged by his reaction. Paul hums lowly with warm pleasure, his leg curling up around Richard's lazily, knee tucked up against his side.

“P,” Richard murmurs hoarsely, and then angles his head to gently catch Paul's earlobe between his teeth, beside his silver earring. Paul shudders and clutches a fistful of Richard's dress shirt. Driven by his reaction, Richard does it again and again, up along the curve of his ear, nipping and drawing more shivers out of the smaller man. He plants a shy kiss against his temple and leans back to meet his gaze.

“Is this... Okay,” Richard asks lowly, slightly embarrassed himself. Paul blinks lazily, slowly, and then a smile pulls across his flushed face. He nods and then bites his bottom lip between his teeth, his gray eyes weakening with his bashfulness. It's cute and has Richard smiling. He reaches up to unravel and pull off Paul's haphazard bow tie, and then works down his dress shirt, revealing skin as well as jagged scars. Pausing, Richard then tugs his shirt out from under his belt to pull it open entirely, eying up those gruesome scars. He's seen them before, of course, but not _this_ up close.

“What is this from?” Richard asks, running his fingertip along a curving scar that ran under his ribcage. Paul fidgets from the touch and weakly lifts his head to look at himself. He hums drunkenly, flopping his head back into the blankets, and squints up at the ceiling.

“I... Think from getting thrown through a window? Landed on glass.”

Raising his head again, he sluggishly props up on an elbow for stability as he peers down at himself. Richard touches at another one, an uglier one that spans from his hip, up to his side. Paul laughs lightly and then explains in a slur, “That's from when I jumped from some high place as a kid, 'cause I was a dumb kid. Landed on concrete with exposed rebar. Aaand this one was from surgery, and this one was from my ex-girlfriend stabbing me with a nail filer. Oh, and I got bit by a dog _here_. And you know _this_ one. My most recent one—wait, no, second most recent.”

“How are you not dead?” Richard asks, while he resumes his work of pulling his dress shirt off. Paul grins and says while letting the other man slip the sleeves off his arms, “Because life just loves having me around.”

“True,” Richard agrees, which earns another laugh from Paul. Smiling, Richard chucks aside the discarded shirt and then slides his hands up over Paul's sides—one gloved, the other not. Paul shudders and melts back into the blankets, eyes becoming lidded. While running his hands up over his chest, Richard leans in to kiss him again. Paul's lips are weak and warm under his own. He only realizes why his kissing has faltered when two hands gently grab his stiff hand to carefully pull off the leather glove.

Kind, warm fingers stroke over the encompassing scar, up to his wrist, and then down again to touch his fingers with their mouths pressed together. Drawing back, Richard glances down to watch Paul curl their fingers together, though Richard cannot return the gesture when Paul squeezes his rigid fingers. He looks back up into Paul's smiling eyes, his heart twisting.

“C'mon, your turn,” Paul says, reaching up with his free hand to hook his fingers into Richard's popped collar, tugging a bit. Drifting his tongue between his lips, Richard nods and then rises up into a seated position. Drawing his hand from Paul's, Richard begins to unbutton his shirt. He slips it off of himself, and then tosses the article of clothing aside. Paul stares at his chest and abs, and then comments, “Well, you don't have many scars.”

“All of the scars I would've had assembled here,” Richard muses, and then lifts his ruined hand, displaying the gruesome disfigurement again. Paul rolls his eyes and then goes back to staring at Richard's abs. He's absolutely seen him shirtless before, but this time, he can stare as long as he would like. Richard is an arrogant ass, so he soaks in the appreciation with no complaint. Paul's eyes remain fixated on his chest while the other man leans over him to kiss him again.

When their bodies press together again, bare skin against bare skin, Paul tenses up from surprise while Richard's eagerness increases, shown by how he begins to kiss the other man with more enthusiasm. Paul furrows his brow and tries to not let himself become overwhelmed—he cannot recall a single time they've actually laid like this, shirtless and intimately pressed together. Paul's face begins to burn with an intense blush, while Richard's stomach twists with a giddiness he hasn't felt in a very long time.

Keeping himself propped on an elbow, Richard has his other hand drifting down Paul's side, across warm skin and scars. Paul's drunken state reduces his kissing to something clumsier, though he tries his best to keep up with Richard's passionate kissing. The hand stroking back up over to his chest and then down to his heaving belly distracts him, as well. He brings his hands up to rest them around the back of Richard's neck, cradling the back of his head with his fingers in his gelled locks.

Richard eagerly mashing his lips against Paul's has him quickly becoming overwhelmed. He's given a reprieve when Richard pulls away, if only to begin kissing at his jaw and neck instead. Paul grips a gentle fistful of Richard's hair and lets his gaze roam down his broad back, watching it shift when he readjusts the angle of his head. He bites Paul's skin gently—down from his neck, across his shoulder, to his chest. Paul shifts restlessly and watches with a strained expression as Richard mouths and nips at his skin and at his nipples. His hand slips underneath him and slides down along the slope of his spine.

His lips are full and soft, pressing along his skin as he moves further down. Kissing over his heaving ribcage, his scars, his soft stomach, his hips. Only when Richard begins to unbuckle his belt with one hand does Paul realize where this is going.

“Wait,” Paul blurts, shifting up onto his elbows, looking down at the other man dazedly with a furrowed brow. Richard glances up at him with surprise and then takes his hand off of him. He arches a brow.

“What's wrong?”

Paul, breathing a little hard, blinks and tries to find the answer to that. He isn't quite sure why he said that, really. He swallows hard and produces a slurred answer, “N-Nothing is wrong. I just... You don't have to.”

“Would you rather I didn't?” Richard asks, moving to sit up now. Paul flushes in the face and feels something similar to panic. He doesn't want to ruin this. He shakes his head. With a confused expression, he goes on, hurriedly saying, “No, I mean, yes, you can do whatever you want. I just don't want it to seem like... Um. You have to.”

“I want to,” Richard says, tilting his head with a slight furrow in his brow, “If I didn't want to, I wouldn't have started it. Do _you_ want this?”

Paul's mind is far too muddled by his intoxication to think clearly about it. All he knows is that he isn't anxious, he isn't uncomfortable, Richard is hot, and he feels good. He's just confused and a little... Unsure.

“I don't know,” Paul begins with a nervous laugh, looking down at Richard's chest again to avoid eye contact as he continues in a stammer, “I-I mean I liked what you were doing, I... I just panicked, I guess. I don't know. I've never done this with a guy before. I don't know what to expect, I don't know what to do.”

“Well, what do you usually do when someone blows you?” Richard asks with a faint smirk pulling at his lips. Paul blinks and looks up at him. Richard's smirk becomes a slight grin. Blushing, Paul lets out a breath and shrugs. Embarrassed, he says quietly, “Uh, enjoy it? Usually?”

“So, that's all you have to do,” Richard muses, gesturing with a lift of his hand, smiling still. Paul presses his lips together and nods a little. They sit there in silence for a moment, before Richard lets out a breath and runs a hand up through his black hair, asking with faint concern on his face, “Do you want me to continue? We can stop if you want to.”

Biting his lip, Paul shakes his head.

“I don't want to _stop_ , I just... Want you to, uh. Kiss me again, first.”

An amused smile replaces Richard's concerned expression. He nods, and then leans in over him again, setting his hands down against the floor on both sides of him. Paul looks up at the other man with wide eyes, his cheeks a deep ruddy color, his heart racing. Angling his head, Richard looks into his eyes, his own warm and tender, and then presses their mouths together again. As he weakly, shyly returns the gentle kiss, Paul watches his face for a moment with lidded eyes, admiring how his eyelashes look against his cheeks.

Closing his eyes, Paul raises a hand to hold the side of Richard's head, thumb against his cheek. Richard hums softly against his mouth, which has something hot bursting in Paul's body. He shudders when Richard's warm, gentle hand rests over his chest again, stroking down to his side. Paul angles his head to deepen the kiss, drunkenly mashing his mouth against Richard's with increased confidence.

The heavy kissing has the heat in Paul's belly intensifying. The uncertainty he had felt before is gone, replaced with a hidden eagerness that had waited for the discussion of consent, apparently. Richard's hand is hot and electrifying on his skin, roaming across his soft stomach, back up to his chest to grope him there. Paul is curling his leg up against him again, almost subconsciously drawing closer to him to gain more skin on skin contact, eating it up hungrily. Richard's warmth and weight is turning him on, and he wants more of it.

Paul breaks the kiss to sloppily kiss at Richard's jaw and neck, over his developing facial hair, while drawing his arm around him, clutching at him. Richard hums lowly and draws his hand up his side in an intimate caress.

“Richard, you—you can continue,” Paul mumbles with his face hidden in Richard's neck, too embarrassed to meet his eyes again. He loosens his arm around his shoulders, which has the other man drawing back and looking at him with a faint smile. Paul melts when Richard leans in to kiss him gently, lovingly pursing his lips against his before drawing back to finish his work of unbuckling his belt. He gets his pants open and down his thighs with Paul attempting to lift his hips, though considering how drunk he is, he barely manages to help.

Richard manages to get his slacks off his legs and tossed aside like their previous articles of clothing. Propped up weakly on an elbow, Paul watches with an embarrassed expression as Richard strokes his hands up over his thighs.

Flopping back against the blankets, Paul smothers his hands over his face, which has Richard grinning. He internalizes his laughter. Richard leans in to press a firm kiss to his soft belly, hands cupping his sides, and then curls his fingers into the waistband of his briefs. He draws it down with Paul's weak attempt to raise his hips.

He kisses him on the thigh and the hip, hands cupping around his sides again. He shifts closer, pressing his lips softly against his heaving belly. He casts a glance up towards Paul's face again, meeting his gaze. Maintaining eye contact, Richard presses a last kiss to his hip and then brings his hand in to curl his fingers around his half-hard cock. Like the rest of him, it's not very big, though nor small. Paul's entire body ripples with tension.

With his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes hazy and glassy, Paul watches Richard's lips part to slide his tongue out, pressing it to the frenulum of the head of his cock. His pretty green eyes are trained up on his face, intense with lust. Considering how drunk he is, Paul is actually a little surprised how easily Richard manages to get him almost completely hard, just by looking up at him like that, his tongue pressed to his dick.

Running his scarred hand up to rest on Paul's stomach, his black fingernails a stark contrast to his pale skin, Richard is silently pleased to feel him become stiffer in his hand. Shifting closer, Richard begins to gently run his tongue up against the underside, and then curls it around the pink head, before sucking it into his mouth. Paul jerks underneath him, his knees raising against Richard's stomach. Richard hums around his cock, an alternative to laughing. He keeps his eyes on Paul's as he sucks at the head.

Raising a hand, Paul covers his eyes, far too embarrassed to watch now. Richard takes the opportunity of broken eye contact to duck his head down, sucking his cock deeper into his mouth with a slight furrow of his brow, his eyes closing. Paul moans and shifts underneath him. Richard keeps himself propped on an elbow as he begins to move his head, repeatedly taking his cock into his mouth. Paul fidgets slightly; his knees dig up into Richard's stomach, hips drawing back against the blankets with his hand clenching into a fist by his side.

Breaking off to instead mouth down the shaft, Richard watches his face, and then smiles when he notices Paul is staring with his fingers bit between his teeth. Richard is overwhelmed with the desire to witness him like this for as _long_ as he can manage. He wants to make him _feel_ like this for as long as he can prolong it. Richard wants to devour, but he wants to savor.

The noise that comes from Paul when he mouths and licks at the pink head of his cock has Richard's insides coiling with a heat—he wants to draw out many more moans. Eagerly, Richard takes him back into his mouth and carefully dips his head down, further and further until his nose meets Paul's heaving tummy and his cock is in his throat. Paul jerks underneath him, and then suddenly Richard feels a hand grab a fistful of his gelled locks, before immediately retracting. Drawing back, Richard looks up at him.

“Sorry,” Paul whispers, taking his fingers from his mouth to instead curl his hand into a fist atop the blankets, still weakly propped up on his elbows. Richard drifts his tongue between his lips, contemplating, and then says in a low murmur, green eyes searching in Paul's, “I like it when my hair is grabbed like that. Don't worry about it.”

Paul bites his lip, as if to repress a smile, and then nods. Richard leans back in to resume. He cups his hand around the base of his erection, in the V of his thumb and forefinger, and takes it into his mouth again, eyes trained on Paul's twisting face. Heat curls like a fire in his gut, witnessing him like this. Richard is incredibly hard himself, and he's sure Paul can feel it, considering they're tangled together like this.

Again, Richard ducks his head down to take him in deeply into his mouth, his nose pressing to his stomach, with his hand sliding up over his heaving belly, across his chest, to grip his jaw. Paul lets out a weak sound that encourages Richard to curl his fingers up, pressing them against his lips until Paul relents and opens his mouth, letting him hook them around his teeth. A few soft noises come from Paul as Richard begins to gradually, slowly work his mouth back and forth.

A hand curls around his forearm, nails digging in. Paul's tongue presses against his fingers, his teeth gently biting down. Richard pauses occasionally to sloppily kiss at his slick cock, to nurse at the head, to replace his mouth with his hand if only to catch his breath, but then goes back to sucking him off until Paul is wiggling and moaning. Richard slips his fingers from between his teeth to run his hand down his throat, across his chest, Paul's spit leaving a wetness on his skin.

“Richard, wait,” Paul begins breathlessly, reaching out to set his hand on his head, curling his fingers into his black hair. Richard hums and draws off with tight suction, which has Paul twitching. Richard looks up at him while licking his lips, arching a brow. Releasing his hair, Paul lets out a breath and bites his lip, contemplating, as Richard waits patiently. Eventually Paul summons the courage to ask, “Did you want to... Do more than just this?”

Abruptly, Richard moves off of him to collapse beside him on the blankets. Paul looks at him with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. Richard moves onto his side and props his head up in his hand, while draping his other arm across Paul. He clears his throat and searches in Paul's eyes as he says, “I do, but that can always be another time, you know. It's up to you. I'm fine with stopping, I'm fine with continuing with what I was doing, I'm fine with doing _more_ if you want to, and I'm also fine with not gaining any of my own satisfaction if you're not comfortable with handling that. I'm just having a good time with you. I don't mind what we do. I'll enjoy it either way.”

A faint smile grows on Paul's face. He nods and turns onto his side as well, scooting closer to the other man. Richard tightens his arm around him, smiling himself, and rests his cheek against his head. Paul sighs and mumbles in a slight slur, “I definitely don't want to stop. But I don't know where to go from here. So, uh. You have experience with men. You just show me, I guess. 'Cause I'm fucking clueless.”

“You're not,” Richard says with a grin, “But you still have cold feet. I get it. You're used to pussy.”

“Ugh, shut up,” Paul mumbles, pressing a hand over his face. Richard laughs lowly, and then says softly with his lips pressed to Paul's temple, “Let's move to your bed. I'd rather not get fucked by you on your living room floor.”

“Oh, God,” Paul says, keeping his face hidden behind his hand. Richard cracks out a laugh and then moves to get up, urging Paul to follow by gently grabbing his wrist.

 

Once in Paul's bedroom, Richard guides him to the foot of the bed with a grin on his face, and then shoves him back onto the bed. Paul bounces once, laughing as he does, before he's pinned down by Richard crawling over him. He takes Paul's hand and brings it up to his chest, flattening his hand across his to encourage touching. Paul looks up at him with wide eyes and red cheeks. Richard continues smiling, gazing down at him with subtle fondness in his eyes. He leans in to kiss him firmly on the brow, and then asks lowly as he presses their foreheads together, “Do you have any lube, P?”

“Uh, yeah,” Paul says slowly, distracted by many things. “It's in the nightstand, along with the condoms.”

Pausing, Richard then sits up and leans over Paul to reach for the nightstand. Paul giggles, amused by the view Richard has given him of his abs. Richard laughs when two hands cup his sides and a mouth messily kisses over his stomach and chest. He manages to dig the bottle of lube and a condom out, though he spends longer than necessary in doing so just so Paul kisses his abs a little more.

With the lube and condom in hand, Richard kneels over Paul, straddling his hips. While Paul watches, he turns the bottle to read the label. Water-based. Meant for vaginal, but it'll work.

“Hey, so,” Richard begins with a growing grin, flipping the lube around in his hands as he meets Paul's wide-eyed gaze, “Ever been curious about what it's like to blow another guy?”

 

Ten minutes later, which consisted of Richard completely undressing, going through the tedious process of messy, careless prep, and a shy attempt of Paul's first blowjob (hindered by his inebriation), Richard once again straddles Paul, nude this time. Grabbing the condom from where it was last placed, he tears it open, tossing the wrapper onto the floor. He scoots back on Paul's thighs and takes a moment to slip it on him. Grinning, Paul fails to repress his drunken giggles, which has the other man smiling.

Grabbing the bottle of lube, Richard squeezes a spot into his hand and then reaches down to stroke it over Paul's length, while leaning in over him again. Paul looks up at him with a flustered look in his eyes, his lips curled into a smile. Richard leans in, angling his head, to kiss that smile, while he continues moving his hand over Paul's slick shaft.

Humming into the kiss, Paul draws his arm around Richard's shoulders, hand curling up into his gelled locks, which are beginning to come undone from what they've faced so far tonight. Richard kisses him heavily, an open-mouthed pursing of his lips that Paul enthusiastically returns, until their tongues briefly meet and they become short of breath. When he becomes eager to move on, Richard breaks away and then moves to straddle his hips.

Paul watches him with wide eyes, his hands curling around Richard's muscular thighs. Richard raises himself just enough to rub his wet cock against himself, his bottom lip between his teeth. He hasn't done this in a while and he's pleased to do be doing it again with Paul. He's happy to do anything even remotely similar to this with Paul. With a slight grin curling over his lips, Richard runs his scarred, stiff hand up over Paul's heaving chest while slowly sitting down on his cock, fingers firm around the shaft to keep it in place as he eases down on it.

Letting out a sharp exhale, Richard runs his gaze up across Paul's flushed body to his face. Paul's mouth is slightly agape, his brow knit and cheeks a deep red. He looks up at Richard with amazement, while squeezing his hands around his thighs. Hands cupped around his sides, Richard begins to stroke them up and then back down again, as he slowly raises and lowers himself on Paul's lap. He watches his face twist slightly with pleasure, his scar wrinkling.

“Feel good, P?” Richard murmurs, a smile growing across his lips. Paul lets out a breath, weakly blinking, and nods while worrying at his bottom lip. Richard tenses up with surprise when Paul then reaches in to grip his hard cock. Richard encourages it with a soft moan, a rumble in his chest that has Paul looking up at him with wide eyes. He begins to touch him with slow, uncertain strokes, though the low noises that emerge from Richard's throat emboldens him. Richard keeps his hands resting around Paul's sides, thumbs over his soft belly, holding him there as he continues riding him.

Through the haze of pleasure, Paul sweeps his gaze up over Richard's body, watching his abs flex with the motion of his body, his thighs clenching each time he raises himself. It's amazing, seeing him like this. He's used to a grumpy asshole with bad posture, who is always too lazy to shave. He's used to an impatient prick who smokes through two packs a day, and constantly complains about how he has to wear a suit all the goddamn time. Now he gets to see him like this, riding him with a certain gracefulness, his body beautiful and muscular. They started out with Richard “jokingly” insulting his small size the moment they met, and now he's fucking him. It's strange to think about.

Placing his hands against the bed, Richard uses the increased leverage to begin dropping down with greater force. It distracts Paul from his thoughts. He moans and squeezes his eyes shut, his hand faltering on Richard's cock. Richard nudges his hand away and replaces it with his own—Paul watches through narrowed eyes as he begins to touch himself while slamming himself down, hard enough it has the smaller man wincing slightly from the force of it.

Richard notices and readjusts his pace. He watches Paul's dazed face as he rides him, his belly twisting with an intensifying heat each time he hears him softly moan. Paul's hands squeeze around his thighs, his scarred face grimacing as he says through grit teeth, “R, I'm not going to last.”

Even if they've only been doing this for a few minutes, Richard isn't surprised. He probably spent too long blowing him earlier. So, considering he wants this to last longer, Richard stops moving and just sits down on him, resting back on his calves to prevent bearing his weight on the other man. He lets his hard cock go to instead stroke his hand up over Paul's heaving belly and chest.

Letting him cool down, Richard takes a moment to lean in over him, setting his elbows on the bed for stability as he angles his head to kiss him. Paul's hands lift from his thighs to gently hold his face. Richard smiles faintly against his mouth. Paul gingerly returns the kiss with faint purses of his lips.

Softly, their lips overlap together in an intimate kiss that Richard breaks a moment later, pulling away just enough to meet Paul's eyes. Even if shy, Paul maintains the eye contact with a slight smile. Richard angles his head to kiss him fleetingly on that smile, and then says lowly, “Get on top of me, P.”

He moves off of him, getting settled against the pillows while Paul sluggishly sits up. He kneels between Richard's legs, stroking his hands up over his shins. Richard grabs his wrists and draws him closer, until Paul is leaning over him, hands planted on the bed on both sides of him. Smiling down at the other man with lidded eyes, Paul's cheeks are flushed and his hair is messy. It's cute and has Richard broadly grinning.

Reaching between them, Richard grips his cock and aligns it against himself. Paul sucks in a breath and looks down between their bodies to watch as he slowly pushes in again. Richard brings his arm around Paul's shoulders, hand flat against his shoulder blade. Curling his legs around him, he presses the heels of his feet into his ass to forcefully urge him closer. Paul actually makes a flustered sound, and it has Richard bursting out a laugh. Paul looks embarrassed.

“You are so cute,” Richard laughs, gazing up at his flushed expression with amused eyes and a smile. Paul looks down between them to avoid meeting his gaze. Richard affectionately runs his hand up over his side, a grin lingering on his face as he watches Paul. He momentarily lifts his head to press a kiss to his temple, before saying softly, “You're being so quiet. Are you usually this quiet during sex?”

“No,” Paul mumbles, meeting his gaze again with a slight furrowed brow, “I'm just a little overwhelmed. You're goddamn... Beautiful and... I just can't believe we're doing this.”

He drops his head to rest his forehead against Richard's shoulder, drawing his arms tightly around him, chest to chest with him now. Richard laughs and brings his hand up to hold the back of his head, fingers in his short dark hair. He's admittedly overwhelmed too, but by his own current emotions rather than what they're doing. The last time he felt something as intense as _this_ was with his ex-wife. He doesn't say as much. He just holds Paul, turning his face in towards him and pressing his lips to the side of his head.

“Are you at least enjoying yourself?” he asks quietly, running his scarred hand down Paul's back. Paul lets out a slight noise, squeezing his arms around him. He nods silently against Richard's shoulder.

“C'mon, then,” Richard urges, resting his hand on the small of Paul's back, pressing slightly. Drawing his arms out from underneath him, Paul sets his hands on the bed for the much needed stability to begin shyly rocking his hips, slow at first. Richard watches his face as he moves, smiling faintly when Paul's hazy gray eyes meet his. He's biting his lip again, his cheeks red. Richard tightens his legs around him. With his other hand, Richard lets it roam up Paul's side, resting around his ribcage.

He's happily surprised when Paul leans in to sloppily crush their lips together. Bringing his hand up from his side, Richard instead cups the back of his neck, fingers curling into his short hair. As they kiss, Paul increases the force and pace of his thrusts, to something heated and enthusiastic. It draws soft moans from Richard, vibrating between their lips. He's jerked slightly with each connection of their bodies, his legs clenching around Paul, his heels digging into his thighs.

Maybe if he weren't quite so drunk, Paul would bring a hand in to touch the other man, but unfortunately he needs both hands to keep himself stable. Richard seemed to have the same idea; he lowers his hand from Paul's neck to instead grip himself. He drops his head back into the pillow, breaking the kiss with a shuddering breath, and gazes down between their bodies to watch Paul fuck him as he touches himself.

Keeping his hand against the small of Paul's back, Richard silently watches his body move; his chest is heaving, his stomach flexing, his hips repeatedly driving against him, his back rolling. The eager pace soon brings Paul to the brink—he grunts, jerking against him a few more times, hard enough it has Richard moaning aloud himself. He squeezes his legs around Paul, looking up at his face to watch it twist with pleasure. His mouth is agape, eyes clenched shut, scar wrinkling up.

“R,” Paul gasps, his eyes snapping open to meet Richard's awed gaze. He lets out a shuddering breath, and then sits back on his calves. He cups his hands under Richard's muscular thighs and keeps them pinned up. Richard's eyes widen, his face bursting with a heat when he realizes Paul is watching himself fuck him. He continues rocking his hips, dazed eyes downcast. It encourages Richard to stroke at himself with more enthusiasm.

“Oh, fuck, P,” he growls, teeth grit and eyes narrowing. Paul glances up to watch him, a slow grin pulling across his face. Richard cranes his head back into the pillows, panting shakily with his fist tightening around his cock. Paul slowly fucking him with back and forths of his hips has Richard following right after. With his hand gripping the base of his shaft, ropes of cum jet out from the head of his cock to decorate his heaving chest. A couple weaker spurts sully his abs.

“Fuck,” Richard repeats in a shaky exhale, his hand slowly pulling at his flushed cock with his mouth hanging open, his eyes closed. He then sluggishly lifts his head to look at himself, and then at Paul. Paul, grinning, releases his thighs and instead sets his hands on the bed as he leans in to kiss the other man.

Enthusiastically, Richard wraps his arm around his back, hand cupping around his side. He kisses Paul with fire, his brow knit and cheeks a deep red. Far too soon, Paul pulls away, which has Richard cracking his eyes open. Gazing up at the other man, he silently appreciates his kissed lips and tender eyes. Breathing a little hard, Richard brings his hand up to stroke at his cheek with a thumb, his expression softening. Paul gently clutches his hand with his own, turning his head to rest his cheek in his palm. Richard smiles and holds his face, until Paul kisses his hand and then suddenly draws away.

Richard watches him scoot further back on the bed, propped up on his elbows. Leaning over his body, Paul maintains eye contact with him as he lowers his head, sticking his tongue out. Richard watches, eyes wide and breath caught. Slowly, Paul drags his tongue up over the valley of his abs, licking up his cum. A burst of heat blooms in Richard's gut, watching him do the same to his chest.

After laying a soft kiss against his chest, Paul sits back on his calves. Resting his hands on Richard's knees, Paul takes a second to register it. And then he grimaces as he thickly swallows, followed by a noise of disgust and a lick of his lips.

“That was disgusting,” Paul complains with a puckered face, “I can see why girls spit.”

With his shocked expression shifting to something amused, Richard grins, eyebrows raised, and then bursts out laughing. He presses his hand to his face as he blurts out past his laughter, “You didn't have to do that, you know!”

“I know,” Paul remarks with annoyance. He gets up momentarily, wobbling on his feet at first, and then goes through the pain of removing the condom and tossing it. Rejoining him on the bed, he flops down beside him, earning his amused, slightly concerned gaze. Still grimacing slightly, Paul says, “I thought you would like it.”

“I did. Now don't do it again.”

“I won't. Your enjoyment isn't worth it.”

“I'm glad to know where your values lay.”

With a smile replacing his scowl, Paul leans forward to peck him on the lips. Richard returns it, as fleeting as it was, and then turns on his side to face him. Suddenly sitting up, Paul reaches out and grabs the covers that had bunched up at the foot of the bed and draws it over them. Bonelessly, he splats down into the pillows beside the other man and groans with tired appreciation as he clutches a pillow to himself. Richard bats it away and shifts closer to Paul underneath the blankets, saying with a frown, “I can act as your pillow.”

“Ugh, fine,” Paul mutters, rolling his eyes. Richard narrows his eyes at him. The displeased expression on Paul's face doesn't last long—he grins and then laughs, curling his arm around Richard as he shifts closer. Considering their respective heights, Paul's head perfectly fits underneath Richard's chin, resting atop the shared pillow.

“I'm kidding,” Paul mumbles, suddenly sleepy. He tangles his legs with Richard's and scoots impossibly closer while saying, “You're comfy.”

Draping his arm around him, Richard smiles and rests his cheek against the side of his head, saying lowly with his thumb stroking back and forth over Paul's back, “I'm really glad to be laying like this with you. I had a good time.”

“Oh, you're 'glad', are you?” Paul sleepily mumbles. Richard huffs and says sarcastically, “Alright, I'm _happy_. Does that suit you, princess?”

“That's better,” Paul says, his smile hidden. He weakly tightens his arm around Richard and runs his hand up over his back, and then down again in a loving caress, before letting it hang limply. They lay in silence for a moment, with Paul's face gradually heating up, until he speaks in a quiet mumble, admitting, “I'm happy, too.”

“Good,” Richard answers softly, and then props up on an elbow just to press a few kisses to Paul's temple and the side of his head.


	16. Die Vögel Singen Nicht Mehr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Working as a solider under Tägtgren in 1988, Till decides to take advantage of an opportunity for his own gain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "The birds don't sing anymore"
> 
> Warning for gore, murder, and a very small part that describes past child abuse.

“T, we don't have time for this!” Flake protests from the doorway, checking his watch for the fifth time. Till doesn't respond at first; he keeps his lips locked with the prostitute in his lap, his broad hands around her sides. She's moaning softly against his full lips and clutching at his stubbly cheeks, eagerly kissing him back before he grips her thin waist and shoves her off of him, onto the opposite end of the couch. She lands with a laugh, while Till rises from the couch, re-buttoning his black shirt. He meets Flake's aggravated stare from across the hotel room, raking his fingers up through his [dark, disheveled locks](https://78.media.tumblr.com/98d4aaa466d5870226c59e5f0b0df222/tumblr_p116eiMnxU1rvajymo1_500.jpg).

“Sorry, brother,” Till says, stepping around the coffee table cluttered with beer bottles, coke, and cash. He first takes his lit cigarette from the ashtray it had sat in patiently, waiting for his retrieval. He then follows Flake out the door, stroking fleetingly at the cheek of the smiling whore that stands nearby, arms crossed with a cigarette between her manicured fingers. Flake reaches out to grab him by the bicep, urging him along with an impatient tug. Till shrugs him off, following silently as he fixes his hair. Sighing, Flake pushes up his glasses and speaks as they pace down the hallway towards the elevators.

“Tägtgren has been waiting. I'm sure he'd appreciate that the reason for our tardiness was that you so dearly wanted to stick your dick in a prostitute.”

“He'll understand,” Till remarks with a smirk as he brings his cigarette to his lips, earning an impatient glance from his partner.

“Will he?” Flake mutters, averting his gaze from the other man to firmly press his thumb against the call button for the elevator. He shakes his head, reaching up to run his fingers through his [short blonde hair](https://78.media.tumblr.com/50569a5abeaabf577cbfc69b61749906/tumblr_p116eiMnxU1rvajymo2_400.jpg) with agitation. Till chuckles and reaches out to pat him on the back, blowing smoke out in a stream in a direction away from Flake.

“What could he possibly have to say that would be more important than screwing a hooker?”

“Plenty, I imagine,” Flake remarks, training his unamused stare on him. Till shrugs and then steps into the elevator as the doors part. Flake silently follows and then slaps the button for the lobby.

 

Following a rather tedious drive consisting of Flake's nagging and Till's lack of attention, they get out of the car—with a slam of Till's door—before they begin to pace across the parking lot, towards the backdoor of the car dealership. Beside Till, Flake reaches into his suit coat pocket to produce a small mint tin. He passes it firmly into Till's hand, who takes it and eyes the other man. Flake readjusts his glasses, saying flatly, “Your breath stinks of beer and cigarettes.”

“How thoughtful.”

Till pops open the tin and picks out two mints before passing it back to Flake. Flake nods, and slips it back into his coat pocket. Till noisily chews on them as they step up to the door. Reaching out, he pulls it open and waits for Flake to enter before following in after him.

It smells like floor wax when they enter. Till is almost blinded by how shiny the floor is. They cross over to Tägtgren's office and slip inside with the only indication of their arrival being the opening of the door, rather than a greeting. Said man is seated at his desk, a cigarette burning between his fingers. Glancing up past his loose, long hair, Peter flicks his gaze between the two men, who stand before his desk with their hands folded behind their back.

With a creak of his chair, Peter leans back into it, bringing his cigarette to his lips.

“Care to explain why you two arrived twenty minutes later than I asked?” he asks, his voice rasping as he lets smoke curl out from his nostrils. Flake clears his throat and answers plainly, saying, “Unpleasant traffic, sir.”

“And it wasn't because T wanted a little more time with a woman?” Peter muses, a grin curling over his lips. Till and Flake exchange glances.

“No, I'm sure there was _unpleasant traffic_ ,” Peter drawls, leaning forward to set his forearms against his desk, putting his cigarette out in his ashtray. Till arches a brow at Flake. Flake keeps his gaze trained on their boss. Clearing his throat, Peter folds his hands atop his desk and glances between the pair with a purse of his lips, his eyes heavy and tired. Till can't help but notice Tägtgren has developed eye bags under his eye bags. He really needs more rest.

“We found a rat,” Peter says plainly, and then runs his tongue between his lips before sighing. Flake furrows his brow.

“A rat? Since when do we have a rat in our floorboards?”

“We don't,” Peter remarks, staring blankly at Flake, “We _did_. He sold out a handful of my colleagues and went into hiding, with protection from the government. But a rat is always discovered. It doesn't hide for very long after becoming a nuisance, no?”

The other two say nothing, watching him intently with tense expressions. Peter glances between them and smiles thinly. He goes on, saying, “I spotted the bastard in Mannheim during one of my business trips. Followed him home, got an address, as well as his place of work. Now, I have two options.”

Pausing, he leans over with a creak of his chair to pull open the mini fridge beside his desk, grabbing a bottle of water from its contents. Flake and Till watch silently, waiting for him to continue. Twisting the bottle open, Tägtgren goes on to say with a tilt of his head and a raise of his eyebrows, “Either fly myself back out there and kill him myself, wasting my time and energy when he certainly does not deserve either of those things from me. Or...”

He gestures to the two of them with a lift of his hand, “Let my two favorite subordinates take advantage of the opportunity to gain a greater reputation, possibly increasing the chances for a promotion from Fialik. Now, I value that more than the strain it would take just to kill some rat fuck I don't want to lay eyes on.”

“Most men would take great value in seeking revenge when it affected them personally,” Flake says, unimpressed. Till glances over at him, eyes narrowed. Flake doesn't acknowledge it. Peter firmly sets his water bottle on the desk and then folds his hands together in his lap. He smiles at Flake.

“Most men, indeed. If I give you that information, will the two of you, or either of you, take care of this pest?”

“Yes, sir,” Till speaks up confidently, earning Peter's tired gaze. Flake is silent beside him. Peter smiles thinly at Till and nods.

“Cruelty is a close friend of yours, T. I know you'll make me proud. F, I can tell you don't give a shit about reaping the benefits. Just go with him and make sure T doesn't do anything reckless.”

The both of them watch as Peter grabs a notepad from his drawer, as well as a pen and an envelope. He writes down addresses and a name, sets the pen down, and rips off the notepad page before passing it and the envelope to Till, who silently takes it. Tägtgren clears his throat as he settles back into his chair again, saying with his gaze flicking between them, “You'll be reimbursed for any costs. Leave tomorrow morning. Now get out of my office.”

Both men obediently nod and then turn to file out of the room, with Flake following behind Till. Flake grabs his arm as soon as they step out of the car dealership and firmly pulls him to the side, much to Till's impatience. Flake looks firmly into his green eyes, saying lowly, hand squeezing around his bicep, “You do realize Tägtgren is using us, right? Fialik would want to personally see to this man being tortured. If what Tägtgren told us was true, he's talking about the dismembering of the higher ranks five years ago. And if that is the case, then Fialik's brother would be one of those men who were convicted. Do you think Fialik would be happy with discovering that a couple of soldiers who weren't even around at the time took care of the man who put his brother in for life?”

Till slaps off his hand and says with a scowl, “I'm aware. But Tägtgren wouldn't throw us under the bus like that. If he has his men kill the rat, then who will get the honor of doing so? Who would impress the higher ranks? Fialik or him? And, if anything, who would get the backlash? The soldiers who were just following orders, or the man who gave them?”

Leaning in close to Flake, Till jabs his finger against his chest, saying with narrowed eyes, “If there's a chance we all benefit from this, I'll take that risk, F. You don't have to be apart of it. You were always a more passive man, after all. I won't weep over your absence.”

Stepping past him, Till makes for the car. Flake sighs and rubs at his forehead, and then turns to stride after him, saying in a raised voice, “T, I'm going with you. We're partners, and I have to make sure you don't get yourself killed.”

Saying nothing, Till digs out his packet of cigarettes and flips it open. Raising it to his mouth, he puts his lips around the butt of a cigarette and then shoves his pack back into his pants. He lights up with a hand cupped around the flame as he strides up to Flake's car, the other man following with festering agitation exuding from him.

 

On the drive to Till's apartment, Flake clenches his slender hands around the wheel and asks, “What's in the envelope?”

With an angling of his mouth, Till blows the smoke out through his open window, his black hair becoming disheveled again from the wind. He peers over at Flake from the corner of his eye and then digs into the pocket of his button-up shirt to pull out the envelope. Eyes downcast, he flips it open and sticks his thumb inside to open it.

“Train tickets,” Till says flatly, and then returns the envelope to his pocket. Flake nods.

“Alright. What time does it leave?”

“10:45.”

“Then I'll meet you at the station at 10:00.”

Rubbing at his eyes with his forefinger and thumb, cigarette between his fingers, Till presses his lips together and then drops his hand to look out the window. He takes a deep drag from the dwindling cigarette and then flicks the butt out the window. After blowing out the smoke, he clears his throat and says flatly with a stony look in his eyes, “Sure.”

 

Back at Till's apartment, Flake puts the car in park and glances over to see Till already shoving open the door and stepping out. Slamming the door shut, Till rounds the car towards the staircase leading to the second floor of the apartment complex. Flake leans out of the window and shouts after him, “10:00! No later!”

Till waves him off with an aggressive jerk of his hand as he begins to ascend the stairs. Flake puts the car in reverse and backs out of the parking space.

 

In his bathroom, Till tears up one of the tickets and flushes it down the toilet.

 

* * *

 

At eight in the morning the following day, Till gets situated in his seat on the train. He withdraws a wrinkled book from the single bag he brought, which he then shoves under the seat. He gets comfortable and then flips open the book to the page with the folded corner. Luckily, the ride won't be long.

 

Two hours later, Till steps out onto the platform of the train station, swarmed by people and overlapping voices, from the exiting passengers and the overhead intercom. As he paces towards the stairs leading out of the station, he withdraws the folded paper from the back pocket of his jeans to read over the address previously written by Tägtgren.

 

* * *

 

First, Till had stopped by a restaurant to fill himself with the nicest, most expensive dish (as covered by Tägtgren, of course). He then spends an hour at a bar, loosening up with a couple fingers of whiskey while reading his book, worn with folded pages thanks to his habit.

Once he feels like actually getting the job done, he leaves the bar, slightly buzzed. Not enough to inhibit his ability, but enough to give him a confidence. After rereading the name of his target and the address of his workplace, he calls a taxi.

 

Dropped off a block away from the location (he figured he would be at work during this day and hour), Till finds a nice secluded area with an alleyway. He stands in the alleyway for a minute, setting his bag on the ground. He unzips it and reaches in to grab his pistol. Tucking it into the back of his pants, he hides it under his leather jacket. Leaning over, he then digs out the second pistol to slip it into his underarm holster. Just as a precaution. But he won't need much to kill one man—and possibly any witnesses.

He hides his bag behind nearby shrubbery and walks the rest of the way to the location. When he arrives at the address provided on the piece of paper given by Tägtgren, Till is a little surprised that it's an abattoir. Though the surprise doesn't last long; he steps around the barrier gate and begins across the parking lot, towards the facility.

There is a warehouse door, meant for shipments, and then a smaller door beside it. A small adjoined office is to the right—the door is slightly ajar. As he paces towards it, it's suddenly drawn open, revealing a woman who's carrying a clipboard. She's almost as broad as Till himself. She has her hair drawn back into a ponytail, wearing a uniform with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her eyes are downcast to the clipboard. Frowning, Till watches her as he approaches, hands in fists by his sides. He would hate to kill a woman, if necessary. She glances up at the sound of his footsteps.

“Hey! This is a restricted area,” she calls out with a furrowing of her brow, tucking the clipboard under her arm.

“Not to me,” Till answers, and then peers past her shoulder towards the office, squinting past the sun that hung behind the facility, “Is Hütter here?”

“And who are you?” she demands, crossing her arms. Till gives her a faint smile.

“I'm his brother. He doesn't know I'm here. It's a surprise.”

“I didn't realize he had a brother,” she remarks, eying him distrustfully.

“Well, now you know. Where is he?” Till says, becoming impatient. Watching him with narrowed eyes, she gestures to the door of the office with a lift of the clipboard, saying, “In the warehouse, doing maintenance. Go through the office.”

“Thanks,” he says, and gives her a forced smile, before stepping past her. He feels her eyes bore into his back as he strides away, towards the door of the office. As he reopens the door and steps inside, he throws a quick glance over his shoulder towards her—he notices she's holding a two-way radio to her mouth, speaking into it. Shit. He enters the office and locks the door behind himself.

There's a door opposite of him. He hurries to it and twists the handle, shoving it open to enter a room full of machinery that towers above him. Reaching back, he withdraws his pistol from his pants and flips the safety off. He begins to cautiously pace down the row of machinery, gun at the ready, until suddenly he sees a man emerge on the opposite end of the facility from between two machines, slipping a two-way radio back onto his belt. He glances over towards Till, and then freezes.

A second later, he begins to run, towards the doorway at the back of the building from which a plastic door curtain fell. He shoves his way past the plastic curtain, disappearing within the room beyond.

“Hey!” Till bellows, and then breaks into a sprint after him, his heavy footfalls loud and reverberating. He bursts beyond the plastic curtain and then glances around, gun poised. He realizes he's in a meat freezer. Slabs of meat, seemingly cow, hang from hooks. Row after row, Till sees only meat. Cautiously, he begins towards the wall of hanging cow, intense green eyes panning for any sign of movement.

Till leans over to catch a glimpse below the racks of meat, looking for any feet. Instead, he hears the shift of clothing behind him. Whipping his head around to look over his shoulder, Till sees the man lurching towards him in a crouched position. He notices the meat hook in his grasp just before the other man thrusts it through his knee with a sudden, violent swing of his arm. Shock jolts through Till's entire body like he's been electrocuted, tightening every muscle, as well as his hands. It results in him pulling the trigger and firing his gun, sending a bullet ricocheting off the floor. The explosion and ringing of the gunfire in the enclosed area deafens them both.

The white hot pain that surges throughout his leg has a deep, eruptive growl of agony ripping from his throat, out between clenched teeth. Hütter cups his hands over his ears with a grimace as an initial response to the gunfire, while Till collapses onto the cold floor with another pained, enraged snarl emerging from within his throat. Reflexively, his hands jerk down to clutch at his knee—which currently has a _fucking meat hook_ driven through it.

Rather than lose the upper hand more than he already has, Till neglects every instinct in his mind and body to nurse his wound—instead, he shakily trains the gun on the other man, his grimacing, sweat-slicked face twisting into a darkened glower. Hütter, who had begun to stand, freezes, eyes trained intently on Till.

Raising his hands, Hütter speaks lowly, cautiously, “It doesn't have to be like this. You can tell your boss you killed me, and I'll disappear.”

“Should've thought of that before you put a hook through my leg, you fucking snake,” Till snarls, and then squeezes the trigger. With another piercing bang that has his ears ringing, the bullet cleanly pierces Hütter's forehead. The other man drops bonelessly onto the floor, his eyes open and trained distantly on nothing. Vibrant red blood builds steadily around his head, steaming when met with the cold air of the freezer. Till sighs and rests his gun-wielding hand down on the floor, staring at the fallen man, before lifting it again to fire another bullet into Hütter's leg, rather pointlessly.

“Now we're even,” Till mutters, before flicking the safety back on.

For a minute, he lays there, propped up on his elbows, eyes closed and jaw clenched. Fiery agony traverses throughout his leg. He tries not to let the agonizing pain cloud his coherent state of mind. Instead, rather than panic, he opens his eyes and looks down at himself.

The visual of a meat hook thrust through his knee isn't a pretty one. If he were a weaker man, he would certainly feel nauseous from the image alone. Instead, he's just annoyed. What the fuck is he going to do now? His phone is in the bag he hid in the bushes a block away. He supposes he'll have to limp to the office to use the phone in there.

Shit. This wasn't apart of his plan.

He really doesn't want to deal with this. The pool of blood grows slowly around his knee, as he sits here. The sensation of it running down his calf, clinging his pants to his skin, is uncomfortable. He supposes he should move now. He grimaces, greatly disliking the thought of doing so.

Instead, he just lowers himself onto his back, looking up at the ceiling of the cold storage room. The coolness actually feels good, against his sweaty skin and pulsating leg. With his hands on his midsection, he contemplates if just lying here and bleeding out is an option.

Someone suddenly appearing through the plastic curtain has him reflexively grabbing and lifting his gun, flicking off the safety. He trains it on the man who just burst through, prepared to fire, before he realizes he's looking at Flake, who has his gun gripped in both hands.

“You fucking moronic _idiot_ ,” Flake growls, practically stomping his way over to his laying partner as he returns his gun to his underarm holster. Till huffs a relieved laugh, limply dropping his hand back down onto the cool floor, gun gripped weakly. Bringing his other hand up, he enables the safety again and then tosses his gun aside. Flake crouches beside him and grimaces with revulsion, inspecting his wounded knee solely by visual observation. Till presses a hand to his forehead, sighing.

“How did you get here so soon?” he asks lowly, eyes closed.

“I got on a plane,” Flake answers, voice sharp, “And I'm presuming you took your lovely, wonderful time at a bar, like you tend to. Have I mentioned you're a _fucking idiot?_ What the hell is the matter with you, going on your own like that? This is what happens, you dumbass! The word is called _consequence_ , T.”

“Just—get me the fuck out of here.”

With an agitated scowl and a roll of his eyes, Flake raises his arm, brushes back his suit coat sleeve, and reads his watch as he says bitterly, “I need to make a phone call. Would you like to go to the hospital and attempt to explain yourself to the police, or shall we wait for a helicopter to retrieve us?”

“Helicopter. Where is the woman?”

“ _What_ woman?”

“Shit,” Till spits, wiping his hand down over his face. He looks at Flake with tired eyes, muttering with exhaustion, “I had to get past her to get to him. I don't know if she was around during the shooting.”

“All she has on you is your appearance, I presume,” Flake says, moving to stand as he rakes long fingers through short blonde hair, “There was no other car in the parking lot. I don't think she was here when it occurred, otherwise she would have called the cops and stuck around in case you were a thief and attempted to escape.”

Nodding weakly, Till trains his shaky gaze up on Flake's and asks lowly, brow knit, “What if she comes back?”

Pursing his lips, Flake sets his hands on his hips, letting out a deep breath.

“Then I'll introduce her to the material and chemical respectively known as lead and gunpowder. I'm sure she'll be thrilled. Wait here. I'm going to call Tägtgren.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Till grumbles, waving him off as he curls his other arm underneath his head, resting back again with his eyes closing. Flake turns and strides out of the cold storage room with sharp taps of his dress shoes and an aggravated slap of his hands against the hanging plastic.

Laying there, Till tries to remain absolutely still. He desperately thinks of the night before, when he had that beautiful blonde whore in his bed—if only to distract himself from the pulsating pain shooting up his thigh, the numbness that is beginning to grow from his toes. Maybe four minutes later, Flake comes striding back into the room with a noisy shift of the plastic. Till cracks his eyes open and sees him approach with what appears to be a folded blanket in his hands.

“It was in the closet in the office,” he explains, and then whips it to unfold it. Till furrows his brow.

“I don't need a fucking blanket.”

Flake frowns at him.

“You are currently laying in a _freezer_ , losing blood. Considering I am the only man here to help you, the man which you betrayed, you better listen to me and accept the blanket.”

Till narrows his eyes at him. Flake is tempted to thrust the blanket in his face, but instead drapes it over his torso, careful to avoid his legs. Till grumbles as he carefully draws it tighter around himself. Flake rubs at his slender face with agitation as he says with a sigh, “Tägtgren called a nearby affiliate. The helicopter will be here soon.”

Laying there silently, Till stares up at the ceiling, his stomach in knots and skin damp with sweat. He speaks lowly, muttering, “Thanks, F. As usual, you saved my ass.”

Standing over him, Flake crosses his arms. He says nothing.

 

* * *

 

Many hours later, Till lays in a hospital bed. With an oximeter pinched on his finger, an uncomfortable IV fed into his hand, Till stares blankly at the wall across from him. He doesn't feel anything below the waist. He doesn't feel anything at all, really.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, guilt festers. Anger. Self-hatred.

Unwanted, buried memories unearth themselves to stab him with reminders. His face is set in stone, his chest crawling with anxiety. He can hardly breathe. Somewhere inside of him, he _does_ feel something. But it's a sore, familiar aching.

 

_“You'll never be satisfied, will you? You have a roof over your head, a bed to sleep in, food to sustain you, and a father who has dealt with you since day fucking one. I know even if you had the world, boy, you would still be the ungrateful son of a bitch you are now. You won't change.”_

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later, following a second surgery procedure the week before, Till sits heavily in a wheelchair, hands limply resting on the armrests with his hollow green eyes trained on the dancing leaves of a nearby tree. Seated at a table outside, appealing food that, for once, _isn't_ from the hospital cafeteria, sits half-eaten on the surface, joined by cigarettes in ashtrays and cups of various drinks—orange juice, water, coffee. It's windy today. It rushes through Till's black hair, the long locks flicking over his eyes, his forehead.

Flake sits to his right, silent, with his hands folded in his lap, his calm blue eyes trained on the scenery of the hospital's courtyard. They exchange no words, though from his peripheral vision, Till sees Flake glance at him occasionally.

Having previously departed to greet their underboss, Heitmann, at the entrance of the hospital, Tägtgren announces his return with the sound of his rugged laughter and animated conversation shared with Heitmann as they pace across the courtyard. Glancing over with disinterest, Till sees the two men pacing up to their table, with smiles on their faces. Heitmann's cold, piercing eyes train on him as they come to a stop at the table. While Tägtgren drags over another chair for their underboss to join them, Heitmann reaches out to grip Till's shoulder, saying firmly, “So, here's the man that killed that bastard Hütter. And put a lit fire under Fialik's ass.”

Till looks up at him with a strained purse of his lips, a pathetic attempt at a smile. He nods.

“Well done,” Heitmann congratulates, as if that's what Till wanted to hear, squeezing his shoulder, “Seeing one of my men accomplish what others couldn't always pleases me.”

Till weakly flicks his gaze over to look at Flake. Flake is staring at him, his jaw set and eyes hard. Till pans his gaze back up to meet Heitmann's. He manages the slightest smile this time, a faint perk of the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, all of these names (Hütter, Fialik, Heitmann, Tägtgren, etc) aren't random. If it wasn't already obvious, they're names of people who are involved with Rammstein, or Till, in some way.


	17. Mit Dir Bin Ich Auch Allein

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul decides he wants to be Christoph's friend, rather than just his colleague.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "With you I am alone too"
> 
> Very small warning for implied rape (it's just two lines of dialogue), and a little bit of gore.

Blood is hot and wet on his face. Running down in thin rivulets to sully the collar of his white button-up. He can taste it in his teeth. It's completely covering his hands; built under his nails. There's a spray decorating the wall to his left. A bloody hammer had been previously thrown across the room, as well as a pair of pliers. He feels so tainted, so filthy, but also so righteous, so fulfilled. Ultimately, hollowed.

With a flick of his wrist, he dexterously spins his butterfly knife between his fingers and then snaps it shut. He returns it to his pocket, his cold gaze trained down on the mutilated body laying at his feet. Staring down at the corpse, Christoph cannot even recognize the face anymore.

Their ears are missing. Fingernails torn off, teeth pulled. Face disfigured from the unfortunate combination of Christoph's wrath and his butterfly knife—and so much worse than what they had done to Paul.

Christoph turns and steps out of the ruined room of the abandoned warehouse, his sleek dress shoes sharply tapping against concrete as he departs.

Hands in fists, he strides to his car, his expression dark and stomach twisting with a plethora of disgust, repulsion, hatred. The swelling rage he had felt for so long had influenced him. He had let those memories and dark feelings guide his hand; he had let it control him. The way he had savagely butchered that man was not only to satiate his revenge for Paul's suffering, but also because of his tunnel vision—that uncontrollable desire to release the mountainous frustration and simmering fury boiling underneath his skin. And now, all he's left with is the contempt he holds for himself, for _allowing_ it to influence his actions with pure wrath. He's left with the memories. The anger that never quite goes away, no matter how hard he tries.

 

 

_“You're being awfully quiet. Aren't you having fun? Isn't this what you want? Why won't you say anything?”_

_“He's just shy... See, look. Now he's responding.”_

 

_“You're a ruthless bastard, Schneider. You handle the dirty work. You enjoy that shit, after all, don't you?”_

 

_“You were a mistake. I thought you would've known by now. I guess you are just that clueless. Now get out of my sight.”_

 

_“Why are you like this? Do you want to make my life harder than it already is, dealing with you?”_

 

_“What makes you think I ever cared about you?”_

 

_“Scream all you want, you little bitch, because no one will hear you. No one will come for you.”_

 

* * *

 

**A month before**

To his right, Paul sits with his feet planted on the passenger seat, legs curled up, his arm folded across his knees. With Christoph's phone pressed to his ear, Paul stares out the window, watching the passing buildings, cars, and scenery as he speaks in a low voice, to Till on the other end.

“Yeah, I'm fine. C is driving me home right now.”

At the wheel, Christoph occasionally glances towards the other man, seeing a faintly frustrated expression on his bandaged face. Paul lifts his other hand with obvious agitation as he remarks, “T, it's just my face. I can come in.”

A pause, a faint murmur of Till's deep voice, and then Paul sighs.

“Alright. Fine. You know how I hate waiting around. But if that's what you want, sure. I'll sit on my ass for a week.”

Again, Christoph hears Till speak faintly through the phone, though he can't distinguish the words. Now sitting at a red light, he casts a glance towards Paul to see him rubbing at the eye that isn't currently bandaged. He lets out a breath, and then speaks flatly.

“Yeah. Thanks. Don't miss me too much, T. I'll call you tomorrow.”

Then he takes the phone from his ear and holds it out to Christoph with a frown on his face. Christoph gives him a slight nod and then takes it, before returning it to the pocket of his slacks with an angling of his hips.

Paul is silent the remainder of the drive to his apartment.

 

As a polite gesture, Christoph parks the car and gets out along with the other man, to walk him up to his flat. Paul grabs his bag from the trunk, which Christoph had also brought over to the hospital from his place as instructed, for his three-night stay. Christoph walks with him silently, following him into the lobby of the apartment complex and towards the elevator.

Even if it is unusual of him, Paul's solemnness is to be expected. Regardless, it still puts Christoph on edge. He's used to a bubbly, smiling Paul, not one bearing exhaustion and dreariness. They silently stand together in the elevator. Christoph can't help but cast a glance his way, hoping to find the absentminded smile on his face like usual.

Instead, his eye is heavy, his lips in a set frown, his brow slightly furrowed. His eye flicks over to meet Christoph's. Anxious, Christoph doesn't want it to seem like he was staring, so he forces himself to ask lowly as he searches the other man's face, “Are... Are you feeling alright?”

As if it were a miracle, a faint smile pulls across Paul's lips. He looks Christoph up and down and muses wryly, “I feel just fabulous, after getting surgery for my ruined face.”

Guilt punches Christoph in the gut. He clenches his jaw, his eyes hardening. Paul must have noticed, because he immediately backpedals by saying with raised eyebrows and a lift of his hand, “But I really do feel fine. I'll feel even better once I get some sleep. It's not really that big a deal. I mean, it's not like I was that beautiful to begin with.”

The elevator doors ding open before Christoph could consider what to say in response to that. Paul gives him an apologetic smile and a tilt of his head before pacing out into the hallway. Christoph follows with his hands curling into loose fists. Paul digs into the pocket of his jeans and produces his keys.

Looming over him from his side, Christoph watches silently as he finds the right one and unlocks his door. Paul casts him a slight glance, giving him the faintest smile, before he pushes open his front door and says, “Come in, C. Let me fix you a drink or something.”

“I... Should be heading back to the office,” Christoph replies quietly, lifting a hand to rub at the back of his neck with a strained grimace on his lips. Paul pouts, standing at his open doorway with his bag clutched in a hand. He looks up at the other man while batting his eyelashes sarcastically, saying dramatically, “But you're supposed to spoil me! I just got out of the hospital!”

Christoph sighs and checks his watch; Till isn't particularly expecting him to come back, really. But he feels anxious and wrought with self-hatred when he's in Paul's presence. Even now, he feels like he's going to be sick, looking at him—bearing the results of Christoph's foolishness. But he owes it to him. He owes everything to him. He lets out a shaky breath and then presses his lips together. Meeting Paul's wide, hopeful eye, Christoph nods.

“Okay. Sure.”

“Alright!” Paul says with a broad grin, and then reaches out to pat him on the arm. Christoph waits for him to enter the apartment, and then he follows him in. While Paul wobbles on one foot, raising the other to undo the laces to his boot, Christoph shuts and locks the door behind them. He warily watches Paul yank off his boots, one at a time with great unbalance, before he removes his own dress shoes with much more tact. Paul ushers him in impatiently with a hand grabbing his wrist, and Christoph simply allows it. He's dragged through the living room, straight to his kitchen. Paul tosses his bag on the couch as they pass by it.

In the kitchen, Paul cracks his knuckles and then opens up his fridge as he asks with a faint smile directed towards the other man, “You hungry? You like fruit, right?”

He then turns back to his fridge, peering in as he muses slowly, “'Cause I got some, uh... Oranges, apples, and... Grapes.”

“I'm fine,” Christoph says, watching him. Paul hums and then reaches in to grab two bottles of water. He turns to the other man and pointedly pushes one into his hand, to which Christoph reluctantly takes it. Paul gives him a smile and then turns back to the fridge to dig an apple out of the fruit drawer. He shuts the fridge door with his hip while biting down into the apple with a crunch.

“You want a drink? Like, y'know, alcohol,” Paul says past the fruit, looking up at the other man as he chews like a camel, leaning against his counter. Christoph pans his gaze up to the bottles of alcohol on the top of his fridge. He shrugs, anxiously fiddling with the water bottle in his broad hands.

“Not particularly. But if you want to drink, I will.”

“Can't,” Paul says and then takes another bite of the apple, “I'm on pain meds. Wouldn't want to risk, uh, y'know, dying just to get drunk.”

“...You thought there might be a chance I would want to drink alone?” Christoph remarks, brow furrowing. Paul pauses, tilts his head, and then shrugs while grinning—which looks just wonderful with his cheeks bulging with apple.

“Now that you mention it, you do seem more of a social drinker.”

Christoph just stares at him. Paul lets out a sigh and then gestures lazily with his apple-bearing hand, saying, “Forget it. C'mere, I want to show you something.”

Paul then straightens up from the counter and begins towards the hallway, his footfalls quiet on the carpet of his living room. After placing the unwanted bottle of water on the counter, Christoph silently follows, glancing around his home meanwhile; there's framed pictures practically everywhere, colorful wallpaper, cluttering magazines and newspapers on his coffee table, and a shelf full of books, movies, and CDs. Before Christoph could further investigate his flat, they enter Paul's bedroom.

His bedroom is cleaner than Christoph expected. While Paul takes a heavy seat on his bed, Christoph glances around. Much like a teenage girl, he has a picture board on the wall with wires running across it, connecting Polaroid pictures with the use of clothespins. A bookshelf containing small stacked boxes, binders, books, and piles of paper sit against one wall. He has a desk with a bulky laptop sitting atop it; that must be from when they robbed the truck transporting electronics a couple months ago.

Glancing over, he sees Paul now lounging back against his pillows, legs strewn out, a single arm folded under his head while he lifts his half-eaten apple to his mouth. He looks at Christoph with an arched brow as he takes a bite out of it.

“What did you want to show me?” Christoph asks, crossing his arms. Paul smiles while chewing and then says past the apple, “Nothing, I just wanted to lay on my bed.”

“Couldn't you have just said 'I want to go lay on my bed'?” Christoph mutters with a sigh, lifting a hand to rub at his eyes. Paul laughs and muses, “I wasn't sure if you were going to follow me. Here, just sit down.”

Christoph eyes him with a frown, but obliges. He takes a seat on the foot of the bed, turning his head to look back at the other man with an arched brow, a wordless prompt. Paul takes another chomp out of his apple and smiles at him innocently.

“Why am I here,” Christoph says flatly, “I could be of more use to Till than just sitting in your room, watching you eat an apple.”

“Because I want to hang out,” Paul remarks, before he props up on an elbow and tosses the apple core towards his trash bin beside his desk; it misses and hits against the wall, before ricocheting onto the carpet. Paul splats back against his pillows and crosses both arms under his head. Christoph stares at him, unamused.

“And your idea of 'hanging out' is just laying here.”

“No, I wanted to ask you some things,” Paul says, flicking his gaze down from the ceiling to meet his blue eye. Christoph's stomach twists. He stares at him silently, and then nods.

“What do you want to know?”

“What's your favorite color?”

Hard face straightening, Christoph stares at him blankly. Paul can't maintain his schooled expression for long; his lips twist with an attempt to stifle it, but the grin breaks past anyways. Christoph turns to face him a little more, resting his hand on the covers. Thinking he could've somehow misheard him, he asks with bafflement and a furrowed brow, “What?”

“What's your favorite color? C'mon, it's an easy question.”

“Uh. Why?”

“C'mon, just answer it!” Paul complains, extending his leg to nudge him on the hip with his foot. Christoph narrows his eyes at him. Paul beams at him in return.

“Silver,” Christoph says flatly. He crosses his arms and arches a brow at Paul.

“And you?”

“Black!” Paul answers with a grin, and then moves to prop up on his elbows as he goes on to ask, “What's your favorite memory?”

Christoph grimaces with confusion, and then says, “P, why are you asking me these things?”

“Because you're not a very talkative person, that's why,” Paul answers, his smile fading, “And I don't know shit about you, except that you like to eat fruit while drinking, you listen only to classical music, you're punctual, you don't date, and you don't have friends outside of me and T.”

“Why do you care?” Christoph demands distrustfully, watching the other man with a furrowed brow. Paul shrugs.

“I like you. More than F and O—they don't give a shit about sentimental things. T is T, he's on good terms with everyone. But... I dunno. I'd like to learn more about you. I'd say I even want to be your friend. I do already consider myself your _friend_ , but I don't know if _you_ consider me that.”

Christoph frowns at him. He looks away, towards the board of pictures on Paul's wall. He sees family, scenery, and smiling faces. Deeper inside of himself, he feels a bitterness curl in his chest, gazing at those images. Jealousy, maybe.

“I don't know when I should consider someone a friend,” Christoph remarks, and then stands from the bed. Hands in loose fists by his sides, he turns to look at Paul with a cold expression on his slender face.

“You shouldn't bother attempting to be mine. There are people more suitable for that position.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Paul protests, raising up onto a hand while gesturing with the other, his bandaged face becoming frustrated, “Don't pull that bullshit. You don't have to act like that around me. You don't always have to be... Distant. Come here. Sit down.”

For a moment of silence, Christoph just stares at him with a distrustful expression, before he lets out a breath and takes a seat on the bed again. He peers at Paul, crossing his arms. Giving him a faint smile, Paul pats the space next to him.

“C'mon, you're so far away.”

Again, Christoph hesitates. He curls his hands into fists against his biceps, and then relents. He gets up, rounds the bed, and takes a heavy seat beside the other man, almost petulantly, his back facing him. Over his shoulder, he eyes him with a frown. Paul grins and reaches out to pat him on the back.

“There you go. Now, are you going to be nice and talk with me?”

Christoph's frown softens to something less severe. He searches Paul's smiling, bandaged face, and then nods slightly. Uncrossing his arms, he sets his hands on the bed, dropping his gaze to his lap.

“Yes.”

“Not that you have to,” Paul continues from behind him, “You can just walk out if you really want. I don't want to bother you, either, you know.”

“It's fine,” Christoph mutters, eyes downcast to watch himself pick at a loose thread of Paul's blanket, “I'm not bothered.”

As he lays back down, folding his arms underneath his head once again, Paul clears his throat and says, “Okay. Good. So, what's your favorite memory?”

At first, Christoph is convinced he doesn't have one. A favorite memory suggests a time in your life where you were most happy. Does he have a moment like that? When he felt completely content and whole? A moment in time where he wished it would never pass? Flickering through his childhood produces very few memories where he was truly happy. But one does stand out, one that hurts his heart with a feeling of loss and longing.

“When I was fourteen, in 1980,” he begins, eye becoming distant, “I met a boy at the boarding school I attended. Without hesitance, he urged me to skip class and leave the premises with him. So I did. We spent all day wandering the city. At night, we went to a creek where fireflies illuminated the darkness. That was the first time I didn't feel alone.”

Christoph glances back towards Paul, who watches him with a faint smile on his face.

“What about you?”

Paul pauses, and then lets out a deep breath while panning his gaze up to the ceiling.

“Uhhh, I'm not sure... “ he says thoughtfully, lips pursed, and then he blinks with realization, before focusing his eye on the other man again, “Well, it's not really just a _memory_. Not just a single moment, or a day. It was more like... A period of time in my life.”

“Which was?” Christoph prompts, turning himself slightly, just to face the other man a little more. Paul smiles.

“Spending a month traveling Europe with my girlfriend. It was my first time leaving Germany, leaving my parents who coddled me. Probably made them lose a couple nights of sleep, because of it.”

Christoph nods. He manages the slightest smile, which has Paul staring and smiling wider himself. Christoph figures the majority of the pictures on the wall are from that trip. Curious, he can't help but ask, his smile disappearing, “Are you still with her?”

“No,” Paul answers as he shrugs, smiling still, “But that's alright. I wouldn't want to drag her into this lifestyle anyways.”

Saying nothing, Christoph just looks at him. He nods slightly. Paul arches a brow at him, asking, “So, you don't date now, right? You said that the other night, when we were all drinking together. Have you ever dated?”

Grimacing slightly, Christoph looks at him with distaste. Paul laughs aloud and muses with a grin, his crow's feet appearing, “I'll take that as a no.”

“I've never dated a woman because they never knew me,” Christoph says, “I've never dated because I've never had the desire to.”

“Damn,” Paul says with surprise, gray eye widening, “Not even a crush? Surely you had a crush on some girl in school before.”

“I went to all-boys,” Christoph answers with a straight face, and then goes on to say with his gaze falling to look down at the covers, “And the romantic interest I've had was only superficial. Which never led anywhere.”

Faintly smiling, Paul says, “You're handsome, and women like the brooding type. One of those women will eventually want to know you beyond the face, and you'll find out that you like her a bit, too.”

“Maybe,” Christoph remarks, eying him. Paul grins.

“I'm sure of it. Now, tell me or _else_ , do you have a favorite movie? Honestly, I can't imagine you enjoying movies.”

A faint, sly smile pulls at Christoph's lips. He looks at Paul with subtle amusement as he says, “ _Die Hard_.”

Blinking, Paul pauses, surprised, and then his broad grin returns.

“Okay, so you _do_ watch movies, and you have good taste, apparently.”

“What about you?”

Paul shrugs.

“I liked the new _Ace Ventura_. Not sure,” he says flippantly, and then looks at the other man with an enthusiastic gaze, asking insistently, “So what do you usually do outside of work? I don't think you've ever really talked about any hobbies.”

Staring at him, Christoph says nothing at first. Contemplating, recalling the past three months and what he's done with himself outside of organizational work. He's spent a lot of time waiting. Hours upon hours of wandering, distraction, minute counting, until he's tired enough or it's deep enough into the night for him to render himself unconscious for however many hours, even if that leads into the inevitable grasp of his nightmares. Sometimes, he's visits the library, but that's only to stock up on the books he reads through, to occupy that waiting period. He drops his gaze from Paul's as he answers reluctantly, “I don't have any hobbies. I usually just work out, read, or go on walks until it's late enough to go to bed.”

Furrowing his brow, Paul searches his tense expression as he says, “I should introduce you to this particular thing called video games. If your _hobby_ is waiting for time to pass, that will definitely help.”

Glancing up, Christoph meets his gaze again. The faintest smile tugs at the corner of his thin lips. He nods.

“I've only heard good things about it.”

Grinning, Paul immediately lurches up off the bed, yammering excitedly, “Come on, then! I got one of those new Sega Saturns waiting! I gotta show you _Doom_!”

“Aren't those extremely expensive?” Christoph asks, reluctantly rising from the bed to follow the smaller man out the door of his bedroom. Paul snorts and looks back at him with amusement as they pace out to the living room.

“As if I paid for it?”

Christoph says nothing. Paul, unable to control his excitement, practically throws himself towards his TV cabinet in the living room. Christoph watches silently, withholding his smile, as Paul turns on the gaming system, unravels a controller, and then immediately rises back up to take a seat on the couch. With his broad smile, he beams rays of sunlight at Christoph while excitedly patting the space next to him on the couch. Christoph presses his lips together, uncertain, and casts a glance to his watch, brushing back his suit coat sleeve to do so; it's not late at all. He could definitely humor Paul for a while.

Once he rounds the coffee table and takes a careful seat beside the other man, Paul lets out a rather animated laugh and then says with his excited gray eye fixing on Christoph's, “Your mind is going to be blown, C.”

 

* * *

 

Many hours later, Christoph is suddenly jolted to an abrupt consciousness from the sounds of footsteps, a squeak of hinges, and then the loud tapping of two mugs being placed on a counter. Christoph comes to realize he's not in his own bed. Lurching up into a seated position, he glances around with a furrowed brow, alert and slightly panicked. And then he comes to recognize his surroundings, as well as the cluttering mess of half-full cups and an open fruit tray on the coffee table. Glancing down at himself, he realizes he's still wearing his suit, though lacking the coat, with a knitted blanket draped over him. He doesn't recall using a blanket last night.

Rubbing his hands down over his face, Christoph lets out a breath, and then jumps when he hears the clatter of glassware, followed by a muttered ' _Scheiße_ '. Glancing over, he sees Paul standing in the kitchen, at the counter. He's wearing sweatpants, joined by a black and white striped hoodie. His hair is damp and sticking up in some places—he must have just gotten out of the shower. Or maybe the bath. He's not supposed to get his bandage wet.

Silently, for a moment, Christoph just watches him. Paul presses a button on the coffee machine with a thumb, which has it coming to life with a hum and a bubbling noise. He runs a hand down over his haphazard dark locks, his torso deflating slightly with his deep sigh. Immediately after, he begins pulling on the strings to his hoodie in an alternating pattern. He continues doing that for maybe thirty seconds, his thoughts most likely wandering, as he stares deeply at the coffeemaker. And then he places his hands against the edge of the counter. He spins himself on his socked foot with a push, turning towards the window above the sink. Approaching it, he leans over the sink to reach out and pin up the blinds, pouring sunlight into the kitchen. Paul sets his hands on his hips, admiring the view beyond the window, before he turns towards the living room. Their eyes meet. Paul blinks, surprised, and then grins. He speaks, voice lively.

“Morning, sunshine. Sleep well?”

Christoph just stares at him, silently amazed he's so animated this early in the day. Paul paces up to the couch, rounds it, and then plops down beside the other man. He steals some of his blanket, though Christoph doesn't care. Paul looks at him expectantly, eyebrows raised and lips in a smile. Christoph sits there a little awkwardly.

“I slept fine,” he mutters, and then checks his watch—it's ten in the morning.

“Before you ask,” Paul begins, earning Christoph's tired gaze, “You passed out. I was a little surprised, honestly. You were watching me play _Sonic_ , and then suddenly, I look over, and you're dead.”

With wry amusement blooming on his face, Christoph speaks lowly, asking with a slightly arched brow, “And what time would that have been?”

Paul grins.

“Like, one in the morning.”

“So how are you surprised? That's very late for me.”

Paul's grin softens to something sly.

“Because you're the kinda guy who would excuse himself as soon as he felt even slightly tired. I didn't think you were planning to stay the night.”

Christoph shrugs. He searches in Paul's gray eye as he says quietly, “I hadn't been sleeping well. And I... I was having fun. So I didn't think to leave. I'm sorry for overstaying. I can go now.”

He begins to rise, but Paul reaching out to grab him by the forearm has him stilling. Christoph looks at the other man with a hardening of eyes and a furrow of his brow. Paul smiles faintly, his eye softer and glancing across Christoph's face.

“You don't have to go, alright? I'm glad you did stay. You can use my shower if you want. It's Saturday, C. You don't have to go anywhere. And I'm making coffee and breakfast, so you're not allowed to. ”

Christoph relaxes back into the couch, the tension leaving his body. He searches Paul's smiling face, contemplating, and then lets out a slight sigh. He nods.

“Alright. I'll stay... At least, for breakfast, since you're being kind enough to make it.”

“Damn right! I am kind like that. Now don't go anywhere, or else I'll hunt you down and drag you back.”

“...Okay.”

He's startled when Paul cups one hand around the side of his head, and then immediately plants a quick smooch against his temple. With a broad grin, Paul gets up and escapes to the kitchen, to avoid Christoph's disapproval. Rather than disapproval, Christoph sits there with shock, followed by embarrassment, and then silent, timid appreciation. He shakes his head, rises from the couch, and tiredly ambles into the hallway, to locate Paul's bathroom for a much needed piss.

 

Of course, being the polite man he is, Christoph helps Paul cook breakfast. Paul often steals bits of food from the pans as they're being cooked despite the irritated swats of Christoph's spatula. He's eventually banned from the kitchen just so Christoph can get the food done; he's not permitted to cross the line that separates linoleum from carpet. So, naturally, Paul sits cross-legged atop the carpet, directly in front of the line, cupping a steaming mug of sugary coffee in his hands with a smug expression on his bandaged face.

Eventually, the table is set with plates, utensils, and hot food. And now, Christoph peers down at Paul with crossed arms. Paul bats his eyelashes up at him, grinning from where he sat on the carpet, until Christoph gestures to the table with a tilt of his head. Paul excitedly gets up and throws himself into a seat, while Christoph takes his own at a much calmer pace.

“You know, I'm the host, I'm supposed to be the chef here,” Paul complains, while grabbing his knife to cut out a piece of butter for his bread. Christoph hums with disinterest, bringing his mug of coffee to his lips as he muses, “Well, if you hadn't been acting like an ass, maybe you would've been. And it was just egg and sausage. Nothing special.”

“Um, it _is_ special,” Paul remarks sharply, directing a pointed look at the other man. Christoph arches a brow at him, mid-drink. Paul smiles and says sweetly, “You're here! That automatically makes it special.”

And then he takes an obnoxious bite out of his bread, followed by his camel chewing. Christoph stares at him, his face stony as he sets his mug of coffee back down on the table. Watching him, Christoph fails to repress the faintest smile that decorates his thin lips. Paul notices, and smiles himself.

 

Once the food is consumed, the pair begins to transfer the dirty dishes to Paul's sink. Christoph stands at the sink, rinsing the plates silently, though he pauses when Paul clears his throat and speaks, while grabbing their coffee mugs from the table.

“Listen, C, I don't want you to think this was your fault.”

Glancing over, Christoph sees Paul pacing up with a calmer expression on his face, his eyes downcast to the sink as he watches himself set the mugs within the soapy water. Standing beside the other man, Paul crosses his arms and glances up to meet his gaze.

“I don't want you to blame yourself. Things happen, and this was one of those things.”

“What I did led to it,” Christoph replies firmly, searching in his insistent gray eye with a tense expression on his slender face, “It wouldn't have happened if I hadn't killed those men.”

“So... What? You would've let yourself die, then?” Paul remarks, lifting a hand in an impatient gesture, his gaze hardening, “I still have vision in that eye. I would _gladly_ give up more than just my appearance for your life, C. I'm glad that you killed those men. I'm glad that you survived, that you're _alive_ , standing here with me, right now. And I want you to know that I don't blame you. I'm not angry. I'm... Relieved.”

Pausing, Paul heaves a sigh and looks away, towards Christoph's wet hands resting on the lip of the sink. He runs his hand down over the lower half of his face with a curl of his fingers around his jaw, a gesture of frustration, before he speaks again in a low murmur, flicking his gaze back up to meet Christoph's, “You don't have to worry about it anymore, alright? I just don't want you to think I blame you. And you shouldn't blame yourself.”

He searches in Christoph's blue eye, and then nods with a pursed, tight-lipped smile. He turns back towards the table to retrieve more dishware. Christoph continues standing at the sink, stiff and silent, unsure of what to say or do. Paul doesn't say anything more as he steps back up to the sink, to deposit the remaining utensils into the water.

Surprising the other man, Christoph reaches out and grips his wrist before he can pull away again. Paul looks up at him with a furrowed brow. Christoph searches his face with a hard expression on his own as he mutters lowly, his eye intense with promise, “I'm sorry. _I_ want _you_ to know I am sorry. And I will never let it happen again.”

Paul's expression softens. A faint smile pulls at his lips. Christoph expected a verbal reply. Instead, he's given an unexpected embrace; Paul gently twists his wrist out of his grasp and brings his arms around him. He rests his cheek against his shoulder. Stiff, Christoph stares down at him with confusion, his hands raised with uncertainty.

“I'm not letting go until you return it,” Paul threatens, though there's a laugh hidden in his voice. Christoph pauses, and then feels a smile well up behind his lips. He lets it slip through as he closes his arms around the smaller man, reluctantly, shyly returning the hug. Paul squeezes him firmly, nearly drawing a wheeze out of him, before he pats his back and pulls away to give him a bright smile.

Christoph looks at him, uncertain what to say, but Paul, as usual, produces something instead.

“You wanna play one more game of _Doom_ before you go?” he asks with a knowing grin, waggling his eyebrows. Christoph pauses, and then lets out a deep, pensive exhale as he pans his gaze over towards the TV standing innocently in the living room. He presses his lips together, flicks his gaze down to meet Paul's, and then nods slightly.

 

* * *

 

A month later, Paul receives a phone call at an ungodly hour, jolting him out of a rather pleasant dream of him driving a massive firetruck. He grumbles, rubbing at his face (the side that _isn't_ freshly healed and tender) as he reaches out to grab his phone from his nightstand. Squinting, he peers at the little screen, reading the number—Till's. Shit.

Sitting up, Paul answers the call and presses his phone to his ear.

“T, what's up?”

“Come to C's apartment immediately. We have something urgent to discuss.”

Paul exhales deeply, running his hand up through his haphazard locks.

“Sure.”

“I'll speak with you soon.”

“Yeah.”

Till hangs up, which prompts Paul to set down his phone and turn on his lamp. He throws off his covers and gets out of bed with an irritated, heaved sigh.

 

Wearing sweatpants, a sweater, a cardigan, joined by a scarf and a beanie, Paul shuffles his way across the parking lot towards the entrance of the apartment building, his arms wrapped around himself. He was having an awesome dream about destroying a city with a firetruck, and now he's freezing his balls off to have a _discussion_ with the other two instead of, you know, making use of a particular thing called cellular communication. Grumbling, he waddles up to the front doors to petulantly yank them open.

Stepping inside, enveloped in the warmth, he gestures lazily towards the receptionist as a polite greeting and then approaches the elevator.

 

At Christoph's door, he knocks three times—the door is unlocked and drawn open a moment later. Glancing up, he sees Till standing there, with his hair pulled back into a messy bun, wearing jeans and a deep red sweater that looks rather snug on his muscular torso.

“Wow, T, it's like I'm looking at another person,” Paul greets with a grin. Till nods and beckons him inside. He quietly shuts the door behind Paul, who then immediately kicks off his boots and enters the sparsely decorated living room to see Christoph standing with his arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“So what the hell is so important that I had to get up out of my nice, warm bed?” Paul complains, earning a disapproving eye from Till, who passes him with quiet taps of his cane. With a sigh, he takes a careful, slow seat on the couch. Paul lingers by the door, uncertain.

“Come here,” Christoph says flatly, and then points at the couch, towards the seat beside Till. Paul pauses, surprised. It's not often he's _instructed_ by Christoph, so firmly. He arches a brow, but relents. Rounding the couch, he plops down beside their leader. Christoph watches them silently for a moment, his jaw clenched and eye hard, before he speaks again, voice stern.

“Hellner is dead.”

A tense moment of silence passes, with Paul's expression becoming shocked, Till's confused and tense.

“How do you know?” Till asks lowly, raising a hand to tiredly rub at his forehead, his green eyes heavy with exhaustion, coming to realize what this means. Paul glances between them. Christoph speaks again.

“I killed him. They'll find his body. I gave them the location, anonymously, so they know.”

“You _what? Why?_ ” Paul sputters with disbelief, fixing his widened eyes on Christoph. Till lifts a hand towards Paul, a silent gesture for him to be quiet. Paul huffs and slumps back against the couch, shaking his head with bafflement. Till then looks at Christoph with expectation, setting his hand down on his thigh. Christoph lets out a breath and continues, voice lowered, eye intense.

“He was causing too much disturbance, and many of us, beyond just our family, wanted him disposed of. Every angle of this had been considered by me; it was the most beneficial decision.”

“And you just killed him,” Till speaks, his deep voice quieted, calm, his green eyes trained on Christoph, studying him and his motionless features, “Bullet to the head, finished.”

The silence that follows is thick. Christoph stares straight into Till's eyes, his arms remaining crossed, his body tense and hands in fists against his biceps. Eventually, Christoph answers, his voice flat.

“I tortured him. And he bled out before I could properly execute him.”

“ _What?_ Why?!” Paul blurts again for the second time, though this time he isn't silenced by Till. Jaw clenching, Christoph stares at Paul with a hard expression, his brow knit and eye tense, his lips pressed together.

“You know why,” he says lowly, his blue eye becoming heated with anger.

“Okay, then why am I here?” Paul retorts, crossing his arms as well, his face bearing frustration, “I didn't have to know this. You, T, and F are the strategists. I have nothing to do with this shit.”

“But you do,” Christoph says, stepping closer to the seated pair, his nails digging into his biceps through the layer of his sleeves, his teeth baring as he snarls, “Hellner ordered for your torture, and your death. You needed to know that the man who planned to end your life received the _same_ treatment he intended to give _you_. He is _dead_ , and you are _alive_.”

“I didn't ask for you to do it!” Paul abruptly snaps, shoving up from the couch to stand before the other man. Christoph watches him with a stony expression on his face, calmly staring into his enraged gray eyes. Paul jabs him in the chest with a finger, saying in a harsh, lowered voice, his teeth clenched, “You tortured him for _yourself_ , not for me. To satisfy that desperate need to feel like you've compensated for what I lost. I guess you thought it would please me. But it didn't, C. It didn't. It pleased only _you_.”

They stare at each other, tense and silent. Christoph says nothing, does nothing. Paul waits for a response. When it doesn't come, he scoffs, throws a hand up, and growls, “Fuck this.”

He shoves Christoph aside, who only takes a step back, and then angrily strides up to the front door. Yanking on his boots, Paul then rips the door open and rushes out. He slams it shut behind himself. Christoph and Till exchange no words for a long moment of silence. The clock on Christoph's wall ticks, joined by the distant sound of dripping water from the leaky kitchen faucet. Till simply watches Christoph's face; Christoph stares at the front door. And then Christoph sighs, unraveling his crossed arms as he takes a heavy seat on the couch beside the other man. He raises a hand to rub at his brow with shaking fingers.

A warm, wide hand resting over his shoulder has Christoph pausing. He peeks over to see Till gazing at him with a knowing look in his eyes.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks quietly. Christoph glances between his tired eyes, and then shakes his head.

“No. You should get some rest. I'm sorry for calling you here like this,” he says with a sigh, looking at Till with apologetic eyes. He goes on, speaking lowly in explanation, “I thought it would be better than waiting. Just so we would be prepared for any possibility.”

“And you were right,” Till says, taking his hand away from his shoulder. Grabbing his cane, he grips the handle, sets the bottom of the cane against the carpet, and rises from the couch. Christoph does the same, silently standing beside the other man with his arms crossing again (which Till notices, piquing his curiosity to whether that's a defensive, or self-comforting gesture).

“We'll discuss what to do at the office tomorrow,” Till murmurs, reaching out to squeeze him gently on the bicep with reassurance. Christoph nods, his expression unreadable. Till searches his face for a moment, and finds nothing. Realizing there's nothing left to be said, he nods and then steps past the other man to begin towards the front door.

Once Till is standing at the open doorway, he glances back towards Christoph, meeting his blue eye. With a faint smile, Till speaks softly, saying, “Get some sleep, C.”

Eyes masked and lips in a frown, Christoph nods. Till doesn't wait for anything more. He turns away, and begins towards the elevator on the opposite end of the hallway. Christoph watches him for a moment, feeling like he should have asked him to stay. But it's too late, and it would've been rude to ask him to do such a thing. He closes the door, and locks it.

Turning to face his apartment—an apartment filled with only the bare minimum of furniture, an apartment seldom occupied, an apartment never once called home—Christoph finds himself completely alone again.


	18. Ohne Dich Zähl Ich Die Stunden Ohne Dich

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard finds happiness in Paul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "Without you, I count the hours without you"
> 
> This chapter was inspired by a recent discovery: Paul likes 70's music. Thus, I inserted my favorite 70's band, a bit heavily. 
> 
> Also, apparently the live action How The Grinch Stole Christmas is just called "Der Grinch" in Germany, or so The Internet claims.
> 
> Warning for murder/slight gore. And a shitton of fluff. The greatest combination.

“You know what, R, we should go see a movie this weekend.”

“Oh, we should?” Richard muses sarcastically, bringing his cigarette to his lips with a glance towards the other man. Pacing beside Richard along a stone pathway towards the front door of a residential home, Paul directs a strained, _equally_ sarcastic smile at him as he gestures with a hand impatiently, saying, “Yeah, because the last time we _did_ was for _The Grinch_ last year.”

“That was only three months ago.”

“Yeah, and it's been three months since I saw a _movie_ in the _theater_ , and it's been three months since _we_ went to go see a movie _together_. You know what that means? It's been too long since I have seen a movie in the theater, and it's been too long since we've seen a movie together.”

“We saw one last night,” Richard remarks around the cigarette, reaching out to press his thumb against the doorbell of the house. A buzzing sound is joined by Paul's annoyed protest, “At _your_ place, and it was a movie we had seen before. _And_ , we weren't really watching it. Not even close. How come you dislike going to the theater, anyways? You're a movie guy!”

“I like movies, not the theater,” Richard remarks, plucking the cigarette from his lips. He blows the steady stream of smoke out in a burst towards the other man. Paul bats it away with a tightening scowl. Richard smiles thinly.

“It's crowded, people are rude, and they always play the sound way too fucking loud. I'm there to watch a movie, not burst my goddamn eardrums.”

Paul rolls his eyes, throwing his hand up with a heaved sigh, and then gives the other man a pointed look as he crosses his arms, “R, it's _Hannibal_ that's playing right now. Don't you want to see your most favorite actor, Anthony Hopkins? He was actually in _The Grinch_ , too. Totally opposite ends of the spectrum.”

“The fuck?” Richard remarks with a laugh, furrowing his brow at the other man, “You know I think he's creepy as shit. If anything, I like Jim Carrey more than that old fuck.”

“How dare you say that about Anthony Hopkins.”

“Wait, back up, he was in _The Grinch?”_

“Yeah,” Paul says with a grin, laughing himself now, “He was the narrator. I didn't even know until _after_ we saw the movie.”

The sound of the door being unlocked with a scraping twist of a lock silences Richard's response. They both turn to face the door, immediately applying their personas fitting of mobsters. Richard brings his cigarette to his lips and takes a drag. The door is then drawn open to reveal a man standing there, wearing a bathrobe and pyjama pants. Richard eyes him up and down, while Paul speaks up, saying with an artificial smile, “Good morning, sir. We're here on behalf of Tägtgren. May we come in?”

A nervous expression immediately replaces the irritation on the man's face. He reaches up to push his glasses higher up on his nose as he stammers, “O-Oh, yes, sure. Come inside.”

“Thank you,” Paul says kindly and enters with a confident stride. Richard gives the man a curt nod as he passes him, following Paul inside. He exhales a lungful of smoke and then makes himself at home by pacing into the kitchen without bothering to ask. Standing at the counter, Richard pinches the end of the lit cigarette and tosses it into the bin. Then he turns and rejoins Paul in the living room, who stands with his hands linked in front of himself, an impatient look on his scarred face—though only Richard could recognize it, beyond his fake smile. It has him smirking faintly. Paul, as always, is antsy.

“What—what is this about?” the man stammers, crossing his arms nervously as he steps up closer to the pair. Sliding his gloved hand into his slacks pocket, Richard scratches at his cheek, against developing facial hair, and sighs.

“I'm sure you could produce an answer to that, if you thought about it hard enough.”

“Tägtgren is aware,” Paul begins, his smile straining, “That among you, Wallin, and Jidell, one of you had tipped off those men who had robbed the participants of the Blackjack game two nights ago.”

“Now, we could beat you,” Richard says while gesturing to the nervous man with a lazy point of his manicured finger, earning a glance from Paul, “Get the answer out of you through some good old fashioned torture. Or, we could just kill you here and now, so we don't have to get our hands dirty beyond the metaphorical sense. Tägtgren said he never really liked you from the start, anyways. And Tägtgren has known Wallin since the eighties, so he has no doubts with him. But Jidell? Well, he might need to take a bullet for the cause, as well. What do you think, P?”

“Wait, T-Tägtgren and I go back a long way, he wouldn't—“ the man nervously begins to say, but is quickly interrupted by Richard sternly repeating with a raised voice, “What do you think, P?”

Paul crosses his arms and lifts one hand to begin pensively stroking at his chin as if he sprouted an imaginary beard. He speaks with a thoughtful tone of voice, looking the anxious man up and down.

“Well, we could also _spare_ him and let him run off and live a life in exile, away from Germany, while Tägtgren believes we _did_ kill him.”

“That is an option,” Richard agrees with a sly smirk. Their unfortunate victim shakes his head with a pleading expression as he stammers, “If you give me that chance, you will never see me again. Tägtgren will never even know I ever existed.”

“But is it the option we were ordered to take?” Paul remarks, flicking his gaze over to Richard, completely disregarding what's been said. Richard's smirk grows, searching in Paul's gray eyes. He hums as if he were truly considering it, while casually reaching behind himself and underneath his suit coat to remove his pistol from under his belt. He turns it in his grasp, studying it and the silencer twisted onto the muzzle.

“No,” Richard says simply, and then points the gun at the other man. Before he could respond, Richard firmly pulls the trigger twice, his green eyes dark and lips in a tight frown—silenced gunfire fills the living room. The man violently jerks back from the force of the bullets embedding in the flesh of his chest. He cries out in agony as he staggers back, to ultimately lose his footing and collapse onto his back. Blood decorates the wall behind him in an intricate spray—the bullet must have passed through.

Gun warm in his grip, Richard steps closer, standing over his laying, shaking body. Paul stands beside him with his hands in fists by his sides, staring down into the terrified gaze of the traitor. He had been shot in the chest and right under his ribcage—blood is pooling rapidly, dyeing the cream carpet a striking red. Though he is not dead. He clutches at his chest with bloody, shaking hands, his eyes wide and chest heaving, shuddering, straining as he struggles to breathe. Richard steadies his gun, aiming it at his head. With another squeeze of the trigger and a quiet pop that bursts through the living room, he pierces his forehead with a clean shot and ceases his trembling.

For a moment, they stand over his body. With his cold gaze trained on the gaping hole in the man's skull, Richard flicks his pistol's safety back on and reaches into his suit coat to slip it into his underarm holster. It's warm against his ribcage.

“Let's go,” Richard says, glancing towards the other man with a stony expression. Paul meets his gaze and nods. They turn to leave from where they entered.

 

* * *

 

The same night, hours later when the moon is out and the winter chill is unforgiving, Richard stands at Paul's front door. Wearing a thick jacket with fur lining along the hood, he stands there impatiently, attempting to find the spare key Paul had given him a while ago on his ring of keys. When found, he practically jams it into the keyhole. His manicured hand is cold and stiff as he gets the door unlocked. He's getting real fed up with this fucking weather.

He shoves inside and is immediately greeted by the elegant singing voice of Christine McVie. The [soft, upbeat melody](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uJo3Rq5Fubc) is filling the apartment, immediately swallowing Richard into a warmer, kinder world. He shuts and locks the door behind himself, quietly. While he works off his thick coat, he peers past the opening of Paul's kitchen to see him standing there with his back to him, at the counter, his hands occupied with a phone and a slender vase of flowers—tulips.

Silently, Richard hangs his coat, removes his boots, runs a hand through his gelled locks. He paces through the living room, towards the other man. Gazing at him, Richard smiles. He's wearing the obnoxious vibrant teal hoodie he had gotten him as a joke gift for Christmas, a couple months back. Joined by a pair of black sweatpants—obviously, he must have gotten cold. Richard bites his lip, stifling his grin as he silently enters the kitchen, undetected.

“So, it's next week then,” Paul says into the phone pressed to his ear, above the sound of the music playing from his TV. Leaning against the wall at the entrance of the kitchen, Richard crosses his arms. He watches Paul, noticing how he begins to trace the design of the vase with a fingertip.

“At Henne? Why not Heising? Make him treat us, like usual,” Paul remarks, followed by a laugh. He then nods, curling his fingers around the neck of the vase, before he begins to play with the petals of one flower.

“Alright, alright. I get it. What time?” he says. Smiling, Richard straightens from the wall and quietly paces up towards him. Oblivious, Paul continues speaking, saying into the phone, “That early? Why?”

Feeling mischievous, Richard steps up behind him, though careful not to announce his presence while doing so. With a grin curling over his lips, he raises his hands and carefully closes them around Paul's sides—who immediately jumps and cries out a shocked curse, while swinging his arm to strike whoever just fucking grabbed him. Richard jerks a hand up to catch his wrist before it could connect. Paul looks back at him with wide eyes.

“Don't scare me like that, you fucking shithead!” he yells, jerking his hand out from his grasp to smack him on the arm. Richard breaks down laughing, staggering forward to lean into the other man. Paul huffs and shoves at him, though Richard doesn't let him push him away. Pressing his phone back to his ear, Paul turns away from the other man, sighing, and then he says, “Sorry, T. It was nothing.”

“ _Is someone there?”_ Richard hears Till's voice, now that he's so close, pressing himself against Paul's back.

“Hi, T!” Richard calls in a raised voice while he grasps Paul's sides in his hands again, which is soon followed by an elbow being thrown into his gut. He buckles forward with a grunt, though the grin lingers on his face. Paul eyes him darkly from over his shoulder.

“Look, I'll see you there next week, then, T,” Paul says sharply, staring at Richard and his shit-eating grin. Richard leans in to nuzzle his face into Paul's neck, while slipping his cold hands underneath his hoodie and shirt to stroke them up his sides. Paul yelps and attempts to twist out of it, but Richard just bears his weight into him, keeping him pinned to the counter while he squeezes at his abs, pinning his cold hand to his tummy.

“ _Richard!_ ” Paul cries as he reflexively lurches back against him in revolted shock, joined by Richard's laughter. Rather than torture him with his cold hands, he wraps his arms around him, stifling his wild, flailing attempt to twist out of his hold, saying in a raised voice, “Hey, hey, I'm sorry! Relax, you wiggle worm!”

“Fuck you,” Paul snaps while he attempts to squirm out of his forced embrace, though the shaky grin that pulls across his face completely ruins his attempt to appear pissed. Richard leans in to kiss it, but Paul is faster—he presses his hand against his face, while saying hurriedly into the phone, “Sorry, T. I'll just, I'll see you. Call me if you need anything.”

Without bothering to hang up, he then tosses his phone onto the counter. He reaches out to grasp the collar of Richard's black button-up in two fistfuls, snarling with wide eyes and a grin, “You asshole, I was on the phone with _our boss_. How about controlling yourself for once?”

“No,” Richard remarks with a grin and amusement in his eyes, “Having control is impossible around you.”

“Yeah, I'm beginning to realize that,” Paul laughs, bringing his hands up from Richard's collar to instead cup his cheeks, feeling his rough stubble against his fingers and palms. With an angling of his head, Richard surges in towards him to eagerly crush their lips together, before Paul could say anything more. Paul hums and winds an arm around his neck, closing his eyes as he kisses him back. The sounds of their moving lips fills the kitchen, joined by the upbeat melody of [another Fleetwood Mac song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rX57RBmD3eI) that begins to flow throughout Paul's flat.

“In a seventies mood, huh?” Richard asks breathlessly mid-kiss, though he doesn't give Paul a chance to respond. He begins to firmly kiss him again, running his hands up underneath his hoodie, to touch his skin—though this time, his hands are warm. Paul melts back against the counter, the hand on Richard's cheek rising, to run up through his black locks. He purses his lips happily against Richard's a few more times, and then breaks the kiss, drawing back to meet his gaze. Richard looks at him with lidded eyes, his chest heaving and lips now swollen from the kiss.

Startling Paul, Richard then leans in to press a firm kiss to his brow, before pulling back and saying, a grin on his face, “Dance with me, babe.”

“What?” Paul laughs with an incredulous expression, before his hand is suddenly taken in Richard's, clutched tightly. Resting his gloved hand against Paul's back, arm wound around him, Richard then pulls him away from the counter and begins to lead him around the kitchen in a circling dance, _almost_ sarcastically considering Richard isn't the kind to _dance_. But this time, that urge to _move_ is swelling inside of him, born from his joy to see Paul again, from the exhilaration of the great kiss, from the anticipation of a night spent with the other man. The melody filling the flat is energetic, upbeat, and has a feeling of _warmth_ and something like _excitement_ building inside of him. Paul is shocked at first, silent and staring at Richard with wide eyes, and then he begins to laugh.

Clutching Richard's hand, he brings his other hand up to grip his bicep and then he follows Richard in a winding, spinning, thoughtless dance, a dance that has them both tripping over each other's feet, joined by laughter and Paul's weak protests. Stevie Nick's voice follows them, guiding them joyfully through each step, each stumble, and each laugh, until they knock into the dining table and Paul loses his footing. He collapses into Richard, who catches him easily with a laugh.

“You're so clumsy,” Richard says fondly as he gazes at Paul's flushed face, “I should've considered that beforehand.”

“I never asked to dance!” Paul growls, though it's followed by a laugh. Richard readjusts his hold on Paul's hand, smiling, and tightens his arm around him. He begins to sarcastically hum along to the music as he attempts to guide Paul back into the dance with a turn of their bodies, though Paul stubbornly keeps his feet planted with a pointed stare fixed on the other man.

The song dies off, regardless. Richard grins and relents; he lets him go. His fingers itch to grasp Paul, to guide him, to forever dance with him. And it's an urge that surprises him. But instead, he just leans in to kiss Paul on the side of the head, saying, “Forget it. Thanks for humoring me.”

“It—It wasn't _humoring_ you,” Paul remarks with an embarrassed stammer, looking at him with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. Richard's grin returns. He nods, bringing his hand up to cup Paul's cheek, his fingers splaying out into his black hair. Paul closes his eyes, leaning into it. It has Richard's heart clenching. His grin softens to a tender smile. He strokes his thumb back and forth over his cheek, and then leans in to kiss him fleetingly on the mouth with a purse of his lips. When he draws back again, Paul's eyes are open, fixing on him.

“Did you want to continue where we left off last night?” Paul asks quietly, searching in Richard's warm green eyes. Richard continues smiling, gazing at him with affection. He brings his thumb down to stroke it over Paul's kissed lips, his eyes flicking down to watch the motion.

“No,” he says lowly, his gaze fixing on Paul's again, “I would rather kiss you until you can't breathe.”

The sly grin that pulls across Paul's lips, joined by his crow's feet that wrinkle up his scar, has Richard grinning himself. Paul nods, reaching up to cup his hand around Richard's, on his cheek. He turns his head to kiss him on the fingers, and then murmurs while searching in his eyes, “I'm not opposed to that.”

“Oh, you're not _opposed_ , are you?” Richard muses with an arched brow. Paul curls his fingers around his wrist, smiling with amusement, and then begins to pull the other man by the wrist from the kitchen, towards the couch in the living room. He guides him, turning him so he's standing with his back to the couch. And then Paul releases his wrist to shove him back into it; Richard had been expecting it, though he lets Paul have that satisfaction by collapsing back onto the cushions—he ends up sprawled across them.

“I'm _not_ opposed,” Paul remarks as he climbs onto him, straddling his waist. Surprising the other man, he gathers Richard's wrists in his hands. Gazing down at him with wide, fiery eyes, he pins his hands up above his head against the arm rest. Richard stares up at him with shock, his heart pounding and stomach twisting with a heat. His chest begins to heave, his knees raising to press into Paul's back.

“I'm willing,” Paul adds with a smile, and then leans in to kiss him with an angling of his head. Rolling his eyes shut, Richard hums into it, almost drunkenly, and eagerly returns it with a passionate overlapping of his lips. Paul squeezes his hands around his wrists, and then lets them go—disappointing Richard. Instead, Paul cups the sides of his neck, affectionately.

Regaining the ability to drape his arms around the smaller man makes up for the disappointment of being released. Richard clutches at him, pulling him closer. Paul shifts, adjusting his position from kneeling, to laying himself down on top of him, their bodies aligning and legs tangling. The couch isn't quite big enough, though it results in them pressing intimately together, so Richard is hardly complaining. He tightens his arms around Paul, running his functional hand up along the length of his back, slipping underneath his hoodie to feel his skin.

The melodic piano and soft guitar that mold together to create the beginning of _[Sara](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ScSsOA4UVr8)_  replaces the upbeat tempo of _Gypsy_ , surrounding them in an embrace of serenity and warmth. Richard is overcome with a feeling of longing. A indescribable feeling of _want._ A _rising_ feeling. An invigorating sensation that has bloomed inside of his chest, a glowing warmth that shines, that strokes along his ribcage, into his lungs, around his heart. He can only hold Paul so tightly, can only kiss him so passionately, and it isn't enough. Despite that desperate yearning that claws at him, a smile breaks across his lips, effectively hindering the kiss. He tries to repress it by pursing his mouth against Paul's, though his smile is persistent and he can't help but laugh.

“I'm sorry,” he giggles, and it has Paul drawing back to look at his grinning face with wonder. Richard gazes up at him with warmth in his eyes, his crow's feet appearing, joined by his broad smile that weakens now that Paul is staring at him. Paul softens, admiring that look on his face. He cups Richard's cheek in a hand and says quietly with a smile, “You seem giddy. I like seeing that smile.”

Richard strokes his hands up over Paul's back, drawing up his hoodie. He nods.

“I'm, uh, I'm happy,” he mutters, his smile becoming slightly strained—uncomfortable. Paul notices and attempts to bring back Richard's joy by leaning in to smooch him over the brow and then the cheek, before pressing their foreheads together. With a smile, Paul whispers, “Good. I am, too.”

 

* * *

 

The soft glow of the lamp washes over him. His hair is disheveled, sticking up in places. His eyelashes rest prettily against his cheeks, eyes closed. His mouth had fallen open, drawing in those breaths that expand his chest, soon to be exhaled with a deflation. His hand is resting up on the pillow beside his face, his other hand draped limply across his belly. The covers are thick with multiple layers, laying over both of them haphazardly. Paul's legs are peeking out from underneath them—Richard can see the pink scar of the gunshot wound on his thigh. He reaches out to stroke his thumb against it, gently. The texture is smooth.

Laying on his side, head resting against the pillow, Richard silently watches the other man doze. The clock resting on the nightstand beyond Paul's shoulder reads almost one thirty in the morning, but somehow, Richard isn't eager for sleep like Paul is. He is awake, and alert. To watch the other man sleep, to study his lax features. He remains like this, simply glancing across his closed eyes, his relaxed brow, his open mouth, his bare chest, his exposed legs, his messy hair.

With a smile pulling at his lips, Richard subtly shifts closer, carefully as to avoid waking the other man. He rests his head down on the same pillow, close enough now he can count Paul's eyelashes, individually. His hand rests between them, and Richard is tempted to take it. Though instead, Richard simply lays there, admiring his tranquil state. He can spot the birth marks that decorate Paul's skin: across his collarbones, his arms, his chest, his neck, his face. They are few, but they are all beautiful regardless, and somehow only add onto Paul's endless allure. They're joined by the numerous scars that each have their own story, stories Richard has heard before. They create rifts in his pale skin, though like his birth marks, they are only charming.

Richard accidentally touching him under the covers when he shifts to get comfortable has the other man jolting to consciousness, his eyes blearily opening. Stirred out of his sleeping stupor, he blinks heavily and furrows his brow, taking notice of how close the other man is. Sluggishly, he props up on an elbow and raises a hand to tiredly rub at his face as he mumbles heavily, “What are you doing?”

“Laying here,” Richard remarks with a slight smile. Paul drops his hand down against his pillow and looks at Richard with squinting eyes. He nods and then splats back down into the pillow. Richard chuckles and reaches out to rest his hand over Paul's forearm.

“Come closer,” Richard says softly. Paul peeks over at him. He begins to scoot closer, which earns a smile from Richard. With a shift of the covers, Paul situates himself beside the other man, resting on his side with his lidded gaze fixed on him. Richard searches his face with a faint smile on his own. He reaches a hand up to stroke the backs of his fingers down against his cheek. Paul's lips curl up into a weak smile, though it soon fades as he closes his eyes. Gazing at him, subtle adoration warm in his eyes, Richard admires his relaxed expression. He turns his hand to cup the side of his face, fingers in his messy hair, thumb stroking over his cheek.

“Let me spoon you, babe,” Richard murmurs, watching him with a fondness. Cracking his eyes open again, Paul searches in Richard's and the nods. He tiredly turns himself so his back faces Richard, and then gets comfortable underneath the covers. Richard reaches out to draw them higher up over his body, concealing his bare torso, for the sake of warmth. Then with a smile, Richard shifts closer, until his legs are aligned with Paul's. He draws his muscular arm around his midsection, hand tucking loosely around his side. Richard kisses him on the back of his neck and then the shoulder, before nuzzling into his hair with a closing of his eyes.

A shudder ripples through Paul. Richard chuckles and squeezes him tighter against himself. Paul hums tiredly, sliding the bridge of his foot down against Richard's calf as he mumbles, “You're so warm.”

“I try my best,” Richard answers, which earns an amused snort from the other man. Richard kisses him again, against the side of his head among wisps of black, and then rests down on the pillow. He closes his eyes, contented. The connection of their bodies, bare skin against bare skin, is therapeutic. Richard feels whole, laying here like this. There's no other place he'd rather be, than laying in bed with the other man, holding him in his arms. He wants to forever touch him, to kiss him, to show him just how much he means to him, to show him that he never wants to let him go, he never wants this to end. He wants to say so many things, he wants Paul to know these feelings. He opens his eyes, to look at the other man again. Those three words that summarize it all sit on his tongue.

The rising urge to verbalize it overcomes him. His heart begins to pound. He hasn't been faced with this in many years, and somehow, it's harder. He drifts his tongue between his lips, nervously wetting them, and then opens his mouth to speak.

“Paul, who's Heiko?” he asks quietly, instead.

Shifting in his embrace, Paul lets out a slight noise of confusion and then sluggishly twists his torso to look back at him with a furrowed brow. Propping up on an elbow, Richard rests his hand on Paul's stomach, while Paul reaches up to brush his wild locks up from his forehead with a sweep of his hand. Searching Richard's face, Paul clears his throat and then answers lowly, “That's my middle name. Where did you see it?”

“Your photographs,” Richard answers honestly, “I looked through them a while ago. I was curious.”

Nodding knowingly, Paul presses his lips together in a tight-lipped smile.

“It was just a nickname I had a long time ago,” he says. Richard nods, searching in his eyes.

“Then who's Nikki?”

Paul huffs a slight laugh and shakes his head. He begins to rub at his eyes, while he says tiredly, “An ex.”

“Really? How did that end?”

Dropping his hand from his eyes, Paul looks up at Richard with a frown.

“Richard, we just fucked, it's almost two in the morning, and I'm tired. You want to talk about my old relationships?”

“We can drop it,” Richard answers with a furrowing of his brow, surprised and slightly defensive. Paul searches his face. He rests that hand over Richard's, atop his stomach. Giving him a tight smile, Paul says, “It's fine. You're curious, and it's not like we know much about each other's past anyways.”

Richard says nothing, only watches him with a frown and a tense look in his eyes. Paul lets out a long exhale and averts his gaze.

“It _ended_ because she left me. I had no aspiration in life, she claimed. And she was right. I was content with traveling Europe for the rest of my life, living off whatever we could make. I just wanted to always be moving, always seeking a distraction. She got fed up.”

Meeting Richard's eyes again, Paul smiles and shrugs.

“And since I had no education, no clue what I wanted to do, I turned to the easiest option at the time.”

“You started working for the organization,” Richard concludes. Paul nods.

“I've known Flake for a long time. He knew I was fucked, so he offered to put in a word to T for me, since T was his superior at the time then, too. T gave me a chance. So... Yeah. That was my introduction to this... Lifestyle.”

He lets out a deep breath and drops his gaze to their hands on his abdomen. Richard watches him silently, expression tense and eyes hard, trained on Paul's face. Silently, Paul threads their fingers together and lifts Richard's hand from his stomach. He begins to play with it, by squeezing Richard's fingers, running his thumb nail up along the length of his palm, idly twisting their hands side to side, languidly, nervously. While he strokes his thumb against the side of Richard's hand, he says thoughtfully, brow furrowed, “That photograph you saw was another life. There's nothing left of that. A version of me before I had to kill and rob to get by. Kinda fucked, isn't it? No one ever knows how they're going to turn out, and this is where I landed. She was smart to ditch me. But... I guess I'm glad for that. She deserves someone better.”

“And now you're stuck with me,” Richard muses with a slight smile, teasing. Pausing, Paul glances over to meet his gaze. Searching in his eyes, Paul manages a weak smile himself.

“Maybe I am,” Paul remarks, “But there are other fish in the sea, aren't there?”

Richard scoffs and says sharply, sarcastically, “I see how it is.”

Grinning, Paul brings their linked hands to his face to press a kiss to Richard's fingers. Richard softens at that. With his grasp on Richard's hand, Paul pulls him closer. Willingly, Richard lowers back down from his elbow, to rest against the other man. Smiling, Paul watches him shift, moving further down atop the bed so he can rest his head on Paul's chest, ear against his heart. He lets Richard's hand go to instead wind his arms around him, hand curling into his black locks. Richard closes his eyes, listening to the heavy, rhythmic beating of his heart. He cups Paul's side with his hand, thumb stroking at the warm skin there.

“I was married before,” Richard begins to say, providing his own side for the sake of equality. Paul says nothing, only runs his fingers through his wild locks. Richard clears his throat, and then goes on.

“We intended to start a family like any other plain couple,” he says quietly, grimacing slightly as if such a concept is repugnant now, “But then one day she decided she didn't want to force herself into a false life. She admitted she had fallen out of love with me and couldn't bring herself to pretend anymore, nor did she want to for the rest of her life for the sake of any children we may have. So we split.”

He pauses, letting it hang, while running his hand up over Paul's side, to rest around his ribcage. He feels it expand and deflate, in his hold. Paul is silent, his fingers still in his hair. Richard continues with a weak shrug.

“But I would've preferred that over living a bullshit life. I hope she's happy now, at least. We still talk, sometimes, but I don't know if she's found someone else. Not that it matters. I'm not in love with her anymore.”

“Setting up your future life with someone only for it to suddenly crumble still hurts,” Paul murmurs, tightening his arm around the other man, “And I'm sorry that it happened to you. Though I know there will be someone for you, R. Love happens.”

“It's not always about love,” Richard remarks, opening his eyes to gaze at Paul's bedroom wall, at the board of pictures that decorates it, “I don't give a shit anymore. If it comes, then it comes, sure, whatever. But I'm not hoping.”

“Yeah, I understand,” Paul says, quietly.

“Anyways,” Richard begins, closing his eyes again with a furrowed brow, “After that, it all went to shit. I lost my purpose in life, so I turned to a certain distraction that is commonly known as drugs. Eventually, I ran out of money to support my certain addictions, so I turned to organizational work for the easier access to such things, and for the money. I worked for Åkerlund's family for a while, but I hated my colleagues, every last one of them, and it made the work miserable. So I said 'fuck you' and jumped onto Tägtgren's ship. He knew me through Åkerlund, so he introduced me to T. The end.”

“And now it's different,” Paul muses. Richard hums lowly, asking, “How so?”

“You've gotten better,” Paul says, softly, almost fondly, “Now, you don't try and decay.”

He resumes running his fingers through his hair. Remaining silent, Richard opens his eyes and stares at his hand holding Paul's side. He isn't sure what to say in response to that. Discomfort sits in his chest, hearing him put it that way. He just keeps his mouth shut, closing his eyes again. Instead, he listens to Paul's heart. A consistent beating, a sound that soothes him. He could listen to it forever.

“Let's get some sleep,” Paul murmurs. Richard clutches at him tighter, with a squeeze of his hand around his ribcage. He doesn't want this night to end. Paul begins to shift underneath him, so Richard reluctantly moves off of him, sitting up. Paul looks up at him with a smile. Taking it as an invitation, Richard moves to lay beside him again, getting comfortable against the pillows as he draws an arm around the smaller man. He's surprised when Paul cups his cheeks with both hands and leans in to kiss him.

Closing his eyes, Richard happily, tenderly returns it with a few gentle purses of his lips. That warm, glowing feeling blooms in his chest again. The kiss is chaste and sweet, but brief. Paul draws away to meet his gaze. Richard admires his tired smile and his kind eyes. Paul takes his hands from his cheeks and drops his head down onto the pillows, signifying that he is quite ready to momentarily die, until the morning. He lazily drapes an arm around Richard while shifting closer, close enough their legs tangle. Before settling in for sleep, Richard reaches past him, leaning over him and earning a tired grumble of protest, to turn off his nightstand lamp with a disappearance of the light, bathing them in darkness.

In that darkness, Paul is warm in his arms. Richard closes his eyes with a smile.


	19. Der Abend Wirft Ein Tuch Aufs Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group meets up with one of Tägtgren's former affiliates to complete a final drug exchange; Tägtgren orders for them to execute the affiliate. They don't complete the task completely unscathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "The evening tosses a shroud across the land"
> 
> I apologize for the long wait! Thank you for your patience! Also, this chapter will break 100k words! throws confetti

**1999**

“Just as C begins to open the case, make the shot. We don't want to give them time to respond.”

“Got it.”

“Here's where you will be positioned,” Till goes on, pointing to a marked building on the photographed layout of the meeting spot, which lays on the desk before Oliver. With a cigarette between his fore and middle fingers, Till then gestures to the open area near Oliver's position, saying, “And we will be meeting them here, in front of the construction site. Considering a betrayal is something to anticipate, we shall assume Stölzl will bring a group of his own men. Doesn't matter; we will take care of the ones on the ground.”

“I will provide supporting fire,” Oliver states, glancing over to meet Till's gaze. Till nods, bringing his cigarette to his lips.

“Just make sure you're shooting the right people,” Till muses with a slight smirk, and then takes a drag of his cigarette. He reaches out to squeeze Oliver's shoulder and says with finality as he lets the smoke curl out of his mouth, green eyes intense and searching in his subordinate's, “Be ready to go by Wednesday. Go to the site and familiarize yourself with the location in case of emergency.”

Ollie gives him an affirmative nod. With a final squeeze to his shoulder, Till then grabs his cane from where he propped it against the desk and begins to pace towards the doors of the office, leaving Oliver in the dimly lit room.

 

* * *

 

A day before the meet, Christoph and Ollie sit at the round table in the office. Till is absent to attend to business, Richard is watching a movie, Paul is focused on paperwork, and Flake is on the phone outside—his voice can be faintly heard through the exit door. Christoph's Beretta is in pieces on the tabletop, sorted symmetrically and neatly. He's cleaning each piece carefully and thoroughly, while Oliver does the same with the sniper rifle he will be using for the job.

They had sat in silence, save for the clicking of steel being set atop wood and the snapping of the reassembling of each clean piece. At one point, long after they've begun, Christoph does speak up, breaking that streak of quietness.

“If anything should backfire,” he begins lowly, earning a glance from Oliver—Christoph is staring at him with a cold look in his icy blue eye, while his hands remain busy with the maintenance of his pistol. He continues in a firm tone of voice, keeping their gazes locked, “Prioritize T's safety, above all else. Do you understand?”

“That goes without saying,” Oliver remarks as he cleans the interior of the gun's barrel with the use of a bore brush, silently annoyed by his dictatorial attitude. Christoph sets down the piece of his Beretta with more force than necessary, which has Oliver cocking a brow. Christoph leans forward, staring intently at the other man from across the table. Voice hard, he says with insistence and a fervent look in his eye, “T's importance can never be overstated. If he cannot rely on me, he must rely on you. Don't prove to us that you're worthless.”

“I've shown my capability many times,” Oliver says, his brow furrowing, “And without being threatened.”

Dexterously, Christoph rebuilds his gun with snaps and clicks of each piece. Saying nothing, he snatches up one of the luster clothes once he finishes the reassembly, and then begins to wipe down the exterior of the Beretta. Training his eye on Ollie's again, he says flatly, “I'm not threatening. I'm reminding.”

Withholding his unamused expression, Oliver just continues calmly working on his sniper rifle, without another word spoken towards the other man.

 

* * *

 

Sitting in the driver's seat of his car, Ollie has his hands around the steering wheel, the engine purring with anticipation of acceleration. Silently he watches Richard and Paul climb into the black SUV waiting for them, exchanging heated discussion meanwhile, which Ollie can faintly pick up through the window. Christoph and Till are pacing out to the car as well—with the handle of a silver case in hand, Christoph is walking alongside the other man, matching his slower pace. After handing the case to Paul in the backseat, Christoph opens the passenger door for Till. Till sarcastically pats his cheek in response to his courtesy, and then sets his cane inside the car before climbing in. Christoph waits for him to get seated before shutting the door once again. He glances towards Ollie and directs an indicating nod his way. Then he rounds the SUV and gets situated in the driver's seat, before starting it with a rumble of the engine.

The black SUV begins to move, impatiently making for the exit of the strip club's parking lot—Ollie shifts the car into drive and follows behind.

 

As a result of speeding and weaving between the traffic, Oliver arrives at the location before the others. He parks his car in a remote location and climbs out. He grabs his silver gun case from the trunk, locks up his car, and then begins towards the winding, rusty staircase that runs up the side of the towering building like vines.

Oliver makes it to the roof under a minute with hurried, albeit controlled, strides of his endlessly long legs, careful to make as little noise as he can—the old metal stairs groan louder than he would like, though it can't be helped. A low cement barrier runs along the outer edge of the roof. It'll provide good support for his sniper rifle. He really hates having to bear the weight of the gun while firing it. Once kneeling at the barrier, he sets down his narrow gun case, unlatches it, draws it open, and dips his hands in to carefully remove his [CZ 750](https://78.media.tumblr.com/61f9ff4439a9305acb2bf7b38d1bf0fe/tumblr_p38sfbT1yg1rvajymo2_540.jpg) sniper rifle. With a practiced swiftness, he screws on the suppressor, loads the magazine, and attaches the bipod.

He pulls on a pair of leather gloves to protect his hands from the discomfort of the cold breeze at this elevation and the anticipated heat of the rifle once fired. Now, he remains kneeling with the sniper rifle draped in his lap—he won't position it yet, until the target reveals himself. No need to risk being spotted.

Through the naked eye, scanning the site, he sees no one. He assumes they're waiting inside the construction building. Oliver checks his watch; it's almost 12:30. Peering up at the sky, he sees only low-hanging, somber clouds. Maybe it'll rain. He hopes that it'll wait until he's actually indoors again.

The SUV pulling into the entrance of the construction site earns his attention. He watches, eyes narrowed against the wind that rushes over him, as it carefully pulls up into the clearing, before coming to a stop. For maybe forty seconds, they sit in silence. Oliver can barely see them at this distance, especially considering the tinted windows of the car itself. There's some slight shifting in the cabin of the car, and then the passenger door is drawn open.

Immediately following is the driver's side being flung open, and soon Christoph emerges, to slam the door and round the car. Oliver grabs his binoculars from their fitted slot in the gun case. Raising them, he looks through the lens to see Christoph speaking to Till with a single agitated gesture of a hand, though Ollie can't see his face. Till is looking at him with a stony expression, his eyes narrowed. He raises a hand, silencing Christoph, and then begins to pace past him with a slight limp, the skull of his cane clutched in a hand. Christoph shuts the door, and turns to catch up to Till, to walk beside him. The wind rushes through their suits rapidly, as well as Till's mohawk.

Glancing over, Oliver scans the exterior of the construction building and pauses when he sees three men emerge, walking side by side, from the wide opening at the bottom of the building. He recognizes the center to be Stölzl. He has a tight smile on his face, his hands in the pockets of his slacks. The two men on either side of him are holding pistols—they don't seem shy to display their lack of trust. Oliver scans the windows and gaps in the walls of the building. He doesn't see anyone.

Till, Christoph, and the three men meet in the center. Keeping his binoculars trained on the construction building, Oliver notices three other men emerge—they seem to be just soldiers. They're also holding guns. They stand further in the back, eyes trained on the pair talking to Stölzl. The backseat doors to the SUV are then opened as well. Ollie watches Richard step out, a strained expression on his face. Through the window of the car door, Ollie can see Paul reaching back in to grab the silver case from inside the car.

Then he and Richard begin to pace out to join the other two in the clearing. Richard is saying something to Paul, but Paul isn't responding. He has a hard expression on his face. When they join Till and Christoph, Oliver sets down his binoculars and grabs his sniper rifle. Lifting it from his lap, he carefully plants the bipod atop the barrier of the roof and gets situated into a comfortable kneeling position. He adjusts the position of the rifle and then presses his cheek against the stock.

Finger resting along the finger guard, he trains the scope on the seven men standing together. Paul passes the silver case to Christoph, his motions stiff. He moves to stand on the left side of Till, a few steps back, while Richard does the same, but on Christoph's right. From his perspective, Oliver can't see their faces—he assumes Till is speaking.

Till stands with one hand gripping the silver skull of his cane, the other in the pocket of his slacks. Stölzl then gestures to the men beside him with a forced smile on his face. With his sights trained on Stölzl, Oliver waits for the cue patiently, his heart hammering and body locked up with tension. As it rushes over him, the wind cools his perspired skin, ruffling his suit. Carefully, he curls his finger around the trigger, though without squeezing. With one eye pinched shut, he stares intently at his target through the scope.

Christoph moves to unlatch the silver case, and then opens it. Ollie holds his breath.

Squeezing his index finger around the trigger, the silenced gunfire pierces the air around him in a muted pop, his sniper rifle kicking back slightly into his shoulder—the bipod bears the majority of the recoil. A moment long enough for the bullet to travel passes, and then he watches through the microscope as Stölzl's head is violently thrown back, becoming a mist of red. His body jerks back and then collapses lifelessly.

In a moment that seems much shorter than it should've been, Christoph rips out the [M16A2](https://78.media.tumblr.com/1a6a9889d56ad9b02a32021cfa1587cb/tumblr_p38sfbT1yg1rvajymo1_540.jpg) from within the silver case, which had been in place of the anticipated money. He cups a hand around the ribbed handguard to train it on the other two men standing there in shock, and then squeezes the trigger. The gunfire explodes throughout the windy air, though quieter at this distance from where Ollie kneels. Shooting from the hip, Christoph sweeps the assault rifle side to side with practiced composure, until both men collapse—neither had responded fast enough to aim their guns.

With his sights trained on one of three men standing near the back, Ollie pulls the trigger again—his sniper rifle kicks back against his shoulder, and then a moment later, the bullet pierces through the jaw of the soldier, and ultimately, his throat. The bullet casing flies out from the chamber of his sniper rifle and meets the concrete beside him with a clatter.

The other two men finally begin to react after the initial moment of surprise: they train their pistols on Christoph and Till. Through his scope, Oliver sees Richard violently shoot one down with an unnecessary amount of gunfire from his pistol, a focused expression on his face—the gun is balanced on his gloved hand for stability, his other hand clutching the grip tightly, restraining the recoil as the empty bullet casings fly out in rapid succession. Stepping forward, Richard fires three more times into his laying corpse. That leaves one man standing.

Before Ollie could train his sights on the remaining soldier, he begins to fire back. Oliver is unable to keep up with how abruptly it unfolds—suddenly Christoph is stepping in front of Till, shoving him back (Till nearly losing his footing from the force of it), and then a bullet connects with his body. He's violently jerked back from the impact, though he only staggers; he doesn't collapse. Just as Ollie begins to squeeze the trigger with intention to take out the last man, suddenly he's stumbling backwards, out of his sights. Joined by the repetitive cracking of gunfire, the man is thrown against the outer wall of the construction building. Training his scope on him again, Oliver notices the excessive amount of bullet holes decorating his torso. Well, that should do it.

Oliver takes his finger off the trigger and brings the sights down on Till and Christoph—Till has a pistol raised, his cane at his feet. Then he begins to pace up calmly to the fallen man, his typical limp almost unnoticeable. With a lift of the smoking pistol, Till trains it on him again. Silently, Ollie watches him fire two more bullets into the fallen soldier's face, the pops of gunfire piercing the air once more. Blood and brain matter splatter across the tarp covering the wall behind him.

When Till turns back, slipping the pistol into his underarm holster, Ollie stares at the grim expression on his face. His eyes are void of any emotion.

After quickly scanning the windows of the incomplete building, Oliver finds no other man, so he lifts his sniper rifle from the concrete barrier and begins unscrewing the suppressor and the bipod. Swiftly, he deposits the gun and its parts into the long silver case. Then, grabbing his binoculars, he trains his gaze on his brothers again.

Christoph is leaning heavily to the side, hand clutching at his shoulder, his arm limp—Ollie can see the blood dripping from his fingers. Paul is standing beside him, his hands wildly gesturing towards Till, who is calmly picking up his cane from the dusty ground. Richard is already hurrying back to the car to get into the driver's side.

Till then points firmly at Paul, snarling something with a curl of his lip and fire in his eyes, which shuts Paul up and has him stepping past the pair with blatant agitation in his stride. Oliver can't see his face as he snatches the M16 off the ground, and shoves it back into the silver case. Till offers a hand to Christoph, but Christoph ignores it and begins pacing towards the car.

Now that they're leaving, Oliver returns his binoculars to their spot in his case, latches it shut, and rises from his kneeling position. Taking his gun case in hand, he begins towards the stairs to exit the roof.

 

* * *

 

At the strip club, Ollie pulls into the parking lot. He parks his car beside the black SUV and takes his time turning off the car, climbing out, and grabbing his gun case from the trunk. He is in no hurry to involve himself in the drama that is no doubt unfolding within the office. Silently, he approaches the back door of the office. Reaching out, he yanks it open and enters to hear Flake speaking.

“—Through the upper trapezius muscle, damage to your collarbone, subclavian artery, and subclavian nerve has been avoided, which is good news for you,” he says calmly. Ollie looks over towards the gathering of Flake, Paul, and Christoph—Flake and Christoph are seated on the leather sectional. Christoph's shirt and suit coat are missing, exposing a slender, muscular torso. There's blood streaked down his chest and arm—the gunshot wound is in the upper muscle of his shoulder. Flake is already working on getting it stitched up. Paul stands close, his fingers curled over his mouth, fingernails between his teeth. He looks concerned. Flake continues, glancing over towards Paul fleetingly, “So you'll be fine. Which _means,_ P can stop hovering and disrupting my focus.”

Ollie approaches the round table to set his gun case down with a clatter, earning a stony glance from Christoph and a nervous, over-the-shoulder look from Paul. Paul fixes his gaze back on the pair and lowers his hand from his mouth to instead cross his arms.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Paul asks, shifting foot to foot. Pausing in his needlework, Flake slowly pans his gaze over to stare at the other man.

“Did you not hear what I _just_ said?” he remarks, deadpan. Paul stands there silently with tension, his hands in fists against his biceps, before he heaves a sigh and turns to stride away with irritation. He shoves out of the room with a bang of the door, through the exit Ollie just came in through. Ollie takes that as a cue to leave himself. He doesn't say a word to the others, he simply approaches the double doors leading into the hallway. He steps through them and paces through the hallway to reach the interior of the strip club, his hands in the pockets of his slacks.

He's bathed in dark purple and crimson hues. The music is vibrating and pulsating throughout the stage room, and through his teeth, as he approaches the bar. There, he recognizes Till. He's seated on one of the stools, cradling two fingers of whiskey in a hand, a cigar clutched between his fore and middle fingers. Oliver takes a quiet seat beside him, and only when the bartender steps up and attends to him does Till realize there's a man sitting beside him—his gaze had been trained over on the dancing girls.

Ollie gives a lackluster greeting with a lift of two fingers. Till looks at him with the slightest hint of a smile on his face. Leaning in, he says in a raised voice, “You're a hell of a shot. I'm glad you're on our side. As always, I'm impressed.”

Oliver isn't in the mood for receiving praise. He doesn't care.

He just nods and takes the glass of Weihenstephan in hand when it's placed before him a moment later. Till says nothing more, just brings his cigar to his lips. Ollie isn't often one to drink on the job like Paul and Till, but he's definitely feeling like he could use it now—executing a job always gives him anxiety. Not unpleasant anxiety. The shaking, overwhelming urge to run, to scream, to continue creating destruction—that kind of anxiety. A restlessness. So instead, he typically drinks or goes on walks to calm his nerves.

“How is he?” Till asks lowly after a minute of silence, which Ollie barely picks up due to the fact he wasn't listening and his eardrums are being fucked by bass. He shrugs and rubs his thumb along the condensation of the glass.

“Alive. I'm sure you could go see for yourself,” Oliver remarks, earning an amused, dry laugh from Till, and then takes a drink of his beer. The foam is thicker than he would like. So far, he's just getting foam.

Annoying.

 

* * *

 

Christoph's apartment is dimly lit when he enters. The lamp in the living room is on, on a low setting, as is the hallway light. Till sees Paul's boots laying haphazardly on the floor. He's not surprised. Lifting his cane with a grip around the shaft, Till tries to stifle any noise by removing his shoes and walking carefully.

Once in the hallway, he presses his hand against the wall for balance. He peeks through the ajar door he knows leads into Christoph's bedroom. The hallway light illuminates the interior of the dark room enough for Till to see Paul seated at his bedside. Christoph is asleep—Till can't see his face, but he can see his laying form underneath the covers. Through the faint light, he also notices Paul is holding his hand atop the covers.

His fingers are curled around his palm, his thumb stroking over the back of it. Christoph must be _really_ out, if that isn't waking him up. It's not often he gets to witness Christoph on the receiving end of affection—at least, when it's not from himself. He isn't sure how to feel about it. Paul is sitting there motionlessly, save for the sweeping of his thumb, but once Till clears his throat, Paul whips his hand away like he's been burned. He turns to look back at Till with shock, his hand ending up between his thighs. Till nearly laughs. He looks like he had just been caught reaching into the cookie jar.

“Till! Jesus!” Paul whispers harshly with a look of irritation blooming on his scarred face. Till smiles thinly and steps into the room.

“I didn't mean to interrupt,” he says quietly, approaching him and the bed to stand over the pair. Placing the tip of his cane against the carpet, he folds his hands over the silver skull. An embarrassed expression crosses Paul's face. Fleetingly, he looks back towards Christoph, and then trains his gaze on Till again. He speaks up in a hesitant tone of voice, stuttering slightly with a nervous gesture of his hand, “I-I just, I was worried about him. And he's, well, you know, he's _him._ He stubbornly refuses any sort of, uh, comfort. So, I don't know, I—“

Till lifts a hand in a calm gesture and states, “I understand.”

“I... uh, okay.”

Staring down at Christoph's sleeping face, Till can just barely discern his features in the darkness. His eyelashes are against his cheeks, his brow relaxed, his eyes roaming underneath his closed eyelids.

“He's just on some pain meds F gave him,” Paul begins in a hushed murmur, training his gaze over on Christoph again, “Knocked him out pretty quick. He was acting strange when I was keeping him company, but I guess that is to be expected considering he was just shot earlier today.”

“I imagine he's more upset with himself than receiving a gunshot wound,” Till says. Paul glances up towards the other man with a curious expression, brow furrowed. Till continues watching Christoph's sleeping face as he goes on, murmuring, “Angry with himself. For allowing it happen. He would convince himself it was an example of his failure, his failure to emerge unscathed. I'm sure he thinks I am disappointed in him.”

“Are you?”

“It's not like he could control it. Why would I be disappointed in him over something he couldn't control?”

Paul says nothing. He looks back over towards Christoph and watches him silently, for a moment. Then he sighs, rubs a hand over his face, and rises from the chair quietly. He turns to Till, gives him a faint smile, and says, “I should get going. I'll see you later, T.”

“You will,” Till remarks with a slight smile.

Paul nods and paces past him, to leave through Christoph's bedroom door. Till remains standing there, hands folded over the silver skull of his cane, tired gaze trained down on his sleeping subordinate. Watching him now, Till notices how he's lacking the tension he tends to have when sleeping. His body isn't locked up, nor is his face straining with discomfort. The medication must have knocked him out well enough that he isn't chased by his nightmares. Till is thankful for that. Christoph deserves a break.

Silently, Till takes a careful seat where Paul sat only a few minutes before. He props his cane against his knee, fingers curled loosely around the shaft, his other hand resting atop his thigh. He watches Christoph. Glancing across his relaxed features, watching his chest rise and fall with each slow inhale and exhale. An adhesive wound dressing is smoothed across his upper shoulder—to protect the stitches. Christoph will need at least a week off. Knowing him, he'll want to come in before that. Not that he'll be of much use with a debilitated arm. But Till knows he doesn't want to feel useless or helpless. Feeling worthless and vulnerable is more agonizing to him than the physical pain itself.

It can't be helped. Till will have to insist on his rest.

After a lengthy five minutes of simply observing the other man, Till reaches out and gently grasps Christoph's wrist. He rests his fingers along his inner wrist—curious to feel his pulse. It takes a firm press of his fingers, but he eventually finds it. His heartbeat is continuous and slow. Calm.

Feeling his heart pound has Till smiling.

Like Paul had done earlier, Till releases his wrist to instead take his hand. Gently clutching it, Till leans in with a creak of the chair. Raising Christoph's limp hand, he presses a tender kiss to the back of it, his green eyes trained on his sleeping face. It doesn't shift. Till kisses him softly across the back of his hand, and then down over his fingers, which curl in slightly from the pressure of his lips.

Normally, such a thing would easily wake him up from the sleep Till often shares with him following a night together. But now, Till can enjoy this vulnerability, even if Christoph so dearly wants to keep that vulnerability to himself.


	20. Der Wald, Er Steht So Schwarz Und Leer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even at twenty-five years of age, Till was not yet a man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "The forest, it is so black and empty"
> 
> Apparently, a group of ravens is called "an unkindness".
> 
> Warning for murder/gore and a subtle reference to past child abuse.
> 
> The art is by the wonderfully talented Layne!! Thank you bb <3

There's tobacco in his teeth. It tastes bitter, but it's strangely an old, warm comfort. Something he's familiar with, and has been since he was fourteen. He spits it out in a thick wad of saliva, against the loose dirt under their feet. Crickets chirp in a surrounding ring around them. His blood is rushing, his heart licking with the fire of his anger. He's breathing hard, sucked in between his teeth. He reaches up to scrape some tobacco off his teeth.

“It's a simple question,” he says, voice low and guttural. With a crunch of rock underfoot, he steps closer to the man kneeling on the dirt, who's hands are bound behind his back by Till's doing. There's blood trickling down from his nose. Fear is in his eyes. Beside Till, Flake stands with his arms crossed, an uneasiness emitting from him.

“I already told you all I know,” the man says, shifting on his knees with a nervous glance towards the seemingly more forgiving man of the two. Flake just stares at him wordlessly, his brow set and jaw clenched. Till sighs and idly swings the bat forwards and backwards, his grip tight on the handle.

“And yet, your answers aren't what I need,” Till remarks, before bringing his bitten cigarette up to his mouth—taking a drag only results in more tobacco clinging to his teeth. Irritated, Till flicks the lit cigarette at the kneeling man and blows out the smoke in a burst.

“What do you want from me?” the other man demands sharply, nearly hysterical, “I can't produce information out of my ass just because you're threatening me! I told you, Fialik was in France when the attempt on Tägtgren went down. As far as I know, he had nothing to do with it! Wouldn't you say Fialik is the type to proudly present himself? Why would he run after issuing an assassination job?”

“Because Fialik doesn't want to catch the heat,” Till remarks, spitting thickly onto the ground again with a curled lip. He points the bat at the kneeling man.

“But one of his men isn't as faithful as you may think. He gave us a heads up. If it wasn't for him, there's a good chance Tägtgren _would_ be dead,” he goes on, propping the bat against his shoulder with his fingers idly squeezing and releasing the handle. Till raises his hand and rubs firmly at his eyes as he says with sarcastic bafflement, “And I guess that's what lead to this, huh? Now, I have to question one of his captains, because we can't trust our own family. All men faithful to Fialik have to be disposed of, because we can't trust any of you conniving fucks.”

Till lowers the bat from his shoulder and steps closer to the other man, his eyes dark and lips pressed in a firm line. Behind him, Flake is unmoving and silent, providing no insight to this. Till clicks his tongue with a shake of his head. The kneeling man looks up at him with a clenched jaw and shaky eyes.

A rush of adrenaline bursts through Till's veins. He feels his heart begin to race, pounding against his ribcage. Till's fingers tingle. He's feeling a rush, a rush he's very familiar with, a rush he cannot control, nor has a desire to. Till lets out a deep breath with a purse of his lips, and brings his other hand over to grip the handle of the bat with both.

“You were always a sadistic fuck, T,” the kneeling man says with a wobbling, frantic tone of voice, his eyes wide and face pale. Till stills for a moment, his hands squeezing around the handle. The other man continues, growling with a curled lip, “Everyone knows you were made for this work. No fucking heart, no soul. Delivering pain is what fuels you, because you're only a goddamn fucking creature. You're nothing but a soulless husk. Go fuck yourself.”

Teeth grit and jaw clenching, Till sees red. Without a word, he cocks the bat back with a twist of his torso and then swings. The bat connects with his temple in a solid strike, the crack of wood against skull ringing through the forested area. The other man collapses lifelessly without a sound. Static is flooding Till's senses; he doesn't register Flake's voice or the hand grabbing his shoulder. Till steps over the fallen man and takes another swing—the bat meets his jaw. And _another_ —his temple again. Once _more_ —this time, his throat.

Blood begins to seep from his nose and his mouth, with thicker consistency. Till raising the bat above his head and slamming it down into the face of the unresponsive man has that blood flying to land across the dirt and Till's boots.

“Hey!” Flake shouts, though it is barely heard through the static, Till's growling, and the crack of the bat meeting skull. Till doesn't stop; he repeatedly raises the bat above his head, and swings it down to connect with his bloodied face again and again and again, until his face is hardly a face any longer. His body is twitching and convulsing by then, and only after Till manages to smash his way through his face and ultimately his skull, does it stop moving entirely. Till shouts with finality as he cracks him across the disfigured jaw with the bloody bat, which then splinters. Two narrow pieces fly off and land somewhere in the dirt.

Stumbling back, Till chucks the stained bat against a nearby tree—it ricochets into the bushes. Panting heavily, he stands there with his hands in fists, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and face decorated with droplets of blood. His long black bangs are in his eyes. His pants are ruined, and his boots are splattered with blood. Till spits thickly onto the ground again; instead of tobacco, it's tainted with blood.

Wiping at his face with a hand, Till heaves a ragged sigh and tries to come down from his rage and the rush born from it. Behind him, Flake is silent. Till stares at the gruesome aftermath of his bottled up anger and feels nothing. He raises his hands to look at them. They're bloodier than his face. He's not sure if it's his blood or not. His hands ache.

When Flake begins to step away, towards the bushes and treeline, Till stares at his departing figure. Flake then leans over to grab something from the ground—Till realizes it's the bat. Flake carries it stiffly, and steps around the clearing until he finds the two broken pieces of wood in the dirt. He picks those up as well, and begins towards the car. Flake silently opens the trunk and throws them onto the tarp within, before slamming it shut.

Continuing to stand near his victim, Till watches silently with his hands in fists as Flake withdraws a bulky phone from the duffel bag in the backseat. Standing at the open car door, he punches in a number and then presses the phone to his ear. Till swallows thickly and turns back towards what remains of the man. He stares blankly while he reaches up to rake his disheveled locks out of his eyes.

“It's done,” Flake states flatly at the car, which Till hears past his panting and the chirping of the crickets, “Now get someone down here to clean it up. I'm not dealing with this.”

A moment later, Flake drops the phone in the duffel bag and slams the backseat door. Then with a crunch of rock underfoot, he rounds the station wagon to get into the driver's side. Till closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. His heart is pounding against his ribcage, and his fingers are buzzing with the overwhelming urge to _do_ something. He repeatedly clenches his hands, trying to shake off the feeling. He then turns to briskly stride up to the car. He yanks open the passenger door and drops into the seat, slamming the door shut behind himself.

Without a word, Flake starts the car, puts it in drive, and sharply turns the wheel as he hits the gas—turning them out of the clearing, and onto the dirt road. Till reaches up to flip down the visor. He opens the mirror, revealing his reflection. Like he suspected, his rugged face is smeared with vibrant blood, due to his mistake of wiping at his face.

With shaking hands, Till reaches out to impatiently rip open the glove compartment. There, he finds a folded cloth—meant for cleaning the windows. Snatching it, he spits in it and then raises it to his face. Staring at his stony reflection, he begins wiping roughly and vigorously at his cheeks and forehead.

 

* * *

 

At Tägtgren's apartment, Till sits on his couch. He's leaning forward with his elbows planted on his thighs, holding a cigarette between his fingers. Tägtgren is standing in the kitchen, fixing them drinks. Till stares distantly at the painting hanging on the wall of Tägtgren's living room, of a woman with her head inserted into a guillotine. That's not disturbing.

The clock on the wall is ticking, marking each second in a peculiarly infuriating way. Till isn't letting the cigarette last—he sucks at it with brief pauses in-between each drag. The smoke is thick in his face and it's stinging his eyes, though he doesn't care. When his fingers begin to feel warm, he stops smoking and blows out the final exhale of a smoke in a short burst. Staring at the lit filter of the cigarette, Till contemplates how he's going to put it out.

Dropping his gaze to his other hand, he turns it to stare at the back of his wrist. A raised, circular scar sits there, partially covered by his body hair. There are three more on his arms, another on his thigh. He stares at it deeply, until his fingers begin to burn from the heat of the lit filter. He raises his hand to lick his forefinger and thumb, before pinching the end of the spent cigarette.

Then Peter comes pacing out with two drinking glasses in hand. The ice inside clink together as he approaches the other seated man. He holds one out for Till. Till looks up and meets his gaze. With a reach of a hand, he accepts it wordlessly. Peter then takes a heavy seat on one of the armchairs and sighs. He draws his long locks out of his face with a rake of his fingers over the top of his head, while he raises the whiskey glass to his lips. Peering over at his subordinate with heavy eyes, Tägtgren takes a drink. Till silently does the same—and immediately feels better.

Till lets out a breath and stares down at the glass in his hand, admiring the auburn alcohol within. God, he loves whiskey.

“You plan on explaining yourself to me?” Tägtgren says flatly, breaking the long silence. Till flicks his gaze up to meet Peter's. He presses his lips together. Peter arches a brow.

“I didn't plan on it, no,” Till answers in a low murmur, his eyes falling to the glass clutched in his hand. He circles it, watching the alcohol and ice shift within. Clearing his throat, he continues, “But there isn't much to explain. I got angry.”

“You can't let insignificant insult affect you,” Peter remarks, “It's elementary shit, T. If insult is all it takes to make you do stupid shit, then maybe I should reconsider your position.”

Before Till could consider what to say, Peter rises with a creak of the chair. Till glances up past his long bangs to see his superior crossing the distance between them at a leisurely pace, his hand sliding into the pocket of his slacks, while he raises the glass of whiskey to his lips. Peter stops right before him, standing at his knees. Till leans back against the couch and stares up at him with a set jaw, his eyes hard. Tägtgren swallows down the strong whiskey with a slight smack of his lips, his tired eyes cold and trained down on Till's. He clears his throat and points at Till with the forefinger of the hand clutching the drinking glass as he asks lowly, nearly demanding, “Why did it upset you, Till?”

“He said offensive shit,” Till says with a shrug, “In the moment, when I was preparing myself to kill a man, it just struck me.”

“No,” Peter says, tone sharper, his eyes narrowing. Till shuts his mouth, his lips in a tense line, brow furrowing. Peter stares at him with a stony expression—his long hair surrounds his face. He speaks again, lower now and with command, his eyes staring deeply into Till's.

“Why did it upset you, Till? I know petty shit doesn't get under your skin. What _he_ said got under your skin. Tell me—why?”

Till looks away with a turn of his head, leaning back further into the couch as he draws his arm across the backrest. He brings his glass of whiskey to his lips and takes a languid drink, his eyes fixing on Peter's again. Resting the glass against his thigh with his fingers around the base, Till speaks lowly, his brow furrowing.

“What are you digging for, Tägtgren? My faults? My fears?”

“I'm digging for answers,” Tägtgren remarks, unmoving from where he stands in front of Till. Till scoffs.

“You got them. I told you. I was in the mindset to get angry, to fuel what I was about to do. He only encouraged it.”

Peter stares at him for a moment, seemingly unsure with a tense expression, before he brings a hand up to wipe it down over his face with a sigh. Till watches him warily, his jaw clenched and lips in a slight grimace. Tägtgren turns away with a dismissive wave of that hand to take his seat on the armchair again. Following a heavy drink of his whiskey, Tägtgren trains his tired gaze on his subordinate and says, “Just avoid releasing your bottled rage, or whatever you want to call it, into your work. It makes you careless. I don't need a careless, rabid dog in my pack. Got it?”

“Did Flake tell you what happened? I assume in _great_ detail. Trust him not to pull any punches,” Till says bluntly, neglecting what he said with his lip curling and head tilting in irritation. He taps his fingernail against the slick drinking glass in his grasp—an anxious reaction gone unnoticed by himself. Peter stares at him with his lips pressed together, his eyes lidded with impatience.

“He did,” he confirms, “But I appreciate that. It shows honesty.”

Till watches his captain with a straightening expression on his face. He wonders just how much Flake has told him. This isn't the first time he's been excessive when it comes to _executing_ a job.

“Now, finish your whiskey and get out,” Peter speaks up with a sigh, “I want to get some fucking sleep and I'm tired of looking at your pitiful face.”

Till nods slightly, eyes falling to his drinking glass. Staring into its contents, he stiffly raises it, and then throws it back.

 

* * *

 

**2000, January 4th**

Snow is languidly descending from the clouds above, visible through the many windows spanning across Till's living room wall and adjoined kitchen. The expanse of white across the trees and road beyond is a beautiful view that Till enjoys with a steaming mug of black coffee in his hand. He has his shoulder against the windowsill, full lips in a faint, easy smile with his gaze trained on the unkindness of ravens seated on a nearby power line, speaking to each other in piercing caws.

To his right, in the confines of his living room, Paul sits atop the couch, propped against the armrest with legs sprawled out across the length of it. He's pestering Christoph with mindless chatter, while said man is attempting to put a vinyl on Till's record player. This doesn't deter Paul—even if Christoph's back is to him, he's still going on about some irrelevant topic that doesn't pertain to the evening.

On the coffee table, an assortment of gifts sit across the surface: a stack of four books (Flake), a game processor kit (Christoph), three vinyls and a sarcastically given copy of the self-help book, “ _The Power of Positive Thinking_ ”(Paul), and a constellation lamp that is currently turned on and spinning said constellations throughout the the living room, and across Christoph's standing form (Richard). Till isn't a materialistic man. The sentimentality of gift giving is appreciated more than the gifts themselves.

Currently, Richard is absent. He had run out to go buy some alcohol, about thirty minutes ago, considering Till doesn't _have_ vodka and like hell Richard is going to choke down some whiskey for the sake of getting drunk with the others. Meanwhile, Flake stands in the kitchen, fixing himself a mug of coffee as well, despite the late hour. The mixed sound of Paul's chattering, Christoph's lackluster responses, and Till's Depeche Mode vinyl fills the apartment.

While bringing his mug of warm coffee to his lips, Till flicks his gaze over from the falling snow to see Paul opening up the game processor kit to dig out one of the very new, very _sharp_ knives. Till takes that as a cue to escape to the kitchen; he straightens up from the windowsill and turns on his heel to pace through the entryway of the adjoined kitchen, separated only by a wall that effectively shields the troubling view of Paul wielding a knife.

Joining Flake at the counter, Till leans against said counter and takes another drink of his coffee as he silently watches the other lanky man dump an excessive amount of milk into his own mug.

“Why am I not surprised you don't have creamer,” Flake bitches in lieu of a greeting while screwing back on the cap to the milk jug. Till smirks.

“I avoid purchasing creamer just to get under your skin,” Till teases with his smirk becoming teeth-revealing. Flake peers over at him in a side-eying scowl. Reaching up, he adjusts his glasses on his nose and then turns to the fridge. Till watches him put away the milk, his grin fading away. He places his mug atop the counter and then draws back the sleeves to his black shirt before crossing his arms. Till clears his throat and speaks lowly, with a faint, slightly strained smile, “Admittedly, I'm surprised you're here. You've only bothered to celebrate either of our birthdays... What, five times? And with little interest.”

“Something like that,” Flake remarks as he steps back up to the counter to cup his slender hands around the mug. He stares down into its contents with his lips pressed together. Staring at him with a furrowing brow, Till says nothing at first—unsure of _what_ to say to that. Flake sighs and looks at him with a sternness in his eyes.

“I suppose due to the occasion, I'm feeling sentimental. I've known you for a long time.”

“You have...” Till replies with faint confusion. Flake holds up a hand and says flatly, “Let me finish.”

Complying, Till shuts his mouth and watches him with a dubious expression. The sound of Depeche Mode and Paul's laughter flows in from the living room. Flake goes on, staring unwaveringly into Till's eyes as he speaks, “You've changed a lot. You were a selfish, reckless brat. I could tell you struggled a lot with... Self-image. Even at twenty-five, you seemed like a boy trying to become a man. I know it was hard, at times. I was there, Till. I've seen you at the bottom.”

As he glances towards the kitchen entryway, Flake crosses his arms, a habit of uncertainty that Till is familiar with. Till stares at Flake with a set jaw, his hand in a loose fist atop the counter. A knot forms somewhere in his chest, seemingly right under his sternum. He watches Flake silently, tense, as the other man sighs and goes on with his calm eyes flicking back over to meet Till's.

“You were the first partner of mine I cared about, to a degree,” Flake continues, face expressionless save for the candid look in his eyes, “I felt powerless, you know. I was afraid of you going too far, somehow. Self-destruction is easy, Till. But... After responsibility was placed in your hands, I could tell you no longer wanted to destroy. You wanted to show capability. And all I'm saying is that I am glad. I'm glad that you became my captain. At first, I was reluctant because I know how _excessive_ you _can_ be, but you proved you're fit to be a leader. I'm... Well. I guess I'm proud, is all.”

Flake grimaces slightly with distaste, as if saying such a thing was repugnant. Speechless, Till looks at him with astonishment. With that uncomfortable expression lingering, Flake reaches up to fix his glasses and then waves his hand in a dismissive gesture, saying with impatience, “Stop staring at me like that!”

Till huffs a laugh and then unfurls his fist on top of the counter. The knot under his sternum unravels, replaced with this restlessness. Till manages a slight smile and says lowly, “I'm not sure what to say. At least I know you like me. I was doubting that.”

That has Flake pausing, and then he snorts with a turn of his head. Till grins broadly. He reaches out to squeeze Flake's bicep as he says, “Thank you.”

As he tends to do when embarrassed, Flake rubs at his cheek and then the back of his neck as he nods, turning back towards his coffee to pointedly cup it in his hands. Signifying the end of their talk, Flake takes a drink—as always, a little awkward. Till smiles to himself and nods, before he grabs his own mug and downs the remainder. He places the empty mug in the sink and then takes his leave from the kitchen, to reenter the living room (with a limp, considering he's neglecting his cane).

Standing in front of the coffee table with one of the polished knives in his hands, Christoph glances up to look at Till when he approaches. Till gives him a faint smile and then takes a heavy seat on the couch beside Paul. Startled and taken off-guard, Paul bounces from the force of it and laughs. Leaning over, he immediately latches onto Till as he complains loudly, “You're going to send me flying through the roof, you big gorilla!”

“Maybe we need to get you a tether to keep you down,” Till remarks with a slight smirk. Leaning over to neatly set the knife back in the case, Christoph speaks up to say quietly with a cool glance towards Paul, “Now I understand why some parents put their children on leashes.”

“Are you calling me hyper or something, C?” Paul snaps with a grin, taking his hands off of Till to sarcastically threaten Christoph with a raised fist. Christoph arches a brow at him as he crosses his arms. The spinning constellation lamp bathes his body and expressionless face in swimming stars. He speaks lowly, the faintest perk of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Or something? Yes.”

Suddenly, Paul is jumping up onto his feet and rounding the coffee table with locked fists as he states loudly, “Get ready to have your ass kicked, C!”

Till watches with a smile as Paul begins feebly, rapidly beating his fists into Christoph's side and shoulder—Paul can't maintain his composure and in result bursts out laughing as he continues punching repeatedly at Christoph's side with both fists in an alternating pattern. Christoph stares at him motionlessly, his lips pressed together tightly with his dimples faintly showing. Till laughs lowly himself, recognizing that as Christoph's “attempting to hide a smile” face. As soon as Paul begins making annoying punching sound effects, Christoph reaches for the open case of knives. Retrieving the biggest one has Paul shrieking, turning, and darting away to the door, which begins to open with perfect timing.

Stepping in with his thick, fur-lined coat decorated in snow, Richard looks up just in time to see Paul leaping onto him. With a shouted startled curse, Richard staggers back on his feet in an attempt to regain his balance and support the additional weight, nearly dropping the bottle of vodka in his hands in the process. Paul clings to him and points an accusatory finger at Christoph with a stifled grin on his face as he shouts, “That man threatened me with a knife, R! Protect me!”

Flake emerges from the kitchen to watch this stupid display with an unamused expression on his face. Christoph places the knife back in the case while Till grins and calls out with a raise of a hand, “Welcome back, R!”

“What the fuck are you talking about!?” Richard snaps towards Paul with a flustered grimace, attempting to readjust his grip on the slippery, wet bottle of vodka despite the additional encumbrance of Paul clinging to his side, “Are you already drunk, you stupid fuck? Get off of me!”

Laughing, Paul lets Richard go and steps aside to give him room. Then he looks down at himself and grimaces.

“You got snow all over me!” Paul complains as he begins vigorously rubbing his hands over the front of his sweater. Richard huffs and kicks off his snowy boots before firmly shutting the door behind himself.

“You'll survive,” he grumpily remarks, shoving the vodka into Paul's hands to begin removing his winter coat. Paul takes it and turns it to eye the label—it's vanilla flavored.

“You're so vanilla, Richard,” Paul teases, which earns an exasperated, cold stare from Richard's green eyes.

“Ha ha. Quite the contrary, you brat.”

“Bring it into the kitchen,” Till calls, interrupting their banter as he rises from the couch with strain (politely declining Christoph's offered hand in the process). Paul leaves Richard at the door to deliver the vodka to Till. Richard grumpily yanks off his coat and hangs it on the line of hooks by the front door, side-eying Christoph meanwhile, who is now seated on the couch and quietly fixing up the clutter on the coffee table. Flake had gravitated towards the windows to gaze out into the snowy beyond with his mug of warm coffee in hand, much like Till had earlier.

Raking his fingers through his black locks to brush out the clinging snow, Richard paces out into the living room and rounds the couch to take a heavy, much needed seat on the opposite side. He heaves a sigh and melts into it, head tipping back against the backrest of the couch with his eyes closing. For a full ten seconds, he sits in peace, punctuated by Depeche Mode and Till's low voice explaining the skill of drink mixing to Paul.

“Cold?”

Pausing, Richard blinks and turns his head atop the backrest to look at Christoph. Christoph watches him, his lips in a line and eyes bearing no aggression. Richard looks him up and down as he says, “Yeah. I think I have frostbite on my balls, actually. Why?”

Christoph sits up from the couch to grab the blanket that has been draped over the back—Richard immediately sits up too and thus, Christoph manages to pull off the blanket entirely and pass it to the other man. Richard isn't prideful enough at the moment to rebuff his considerate gesture. He takes it wordlessly and wraps it around himself. Sighing again, he collapses back into the couch and closes his eyes. After a moment of silence, Richard clears his throat and mumbles, “Thanks. Maybe my balls will make it now.”

“Maybe.”

Richard smirks faintly and then lets himself drift off to the sound of Till's vinyl and Paul's voice while the spinning constellations swim across their bodies. Thankfully, Christoph isn't one to talk.

Five minutes later, he distantly recognizes the sound of footsteps on carpet and the clicking of Till's brace, before suddenly a heavy weight is dropping onto his lap. Jolting with shock, Richard snaps his eyes open and grimaces at the culprit, who, to Richard's _complete surprise_ , turns out to be Paul. Paul is sitting on his lap, back against the arm rest, with his legs crossed and splayed out over the length of the couch—his feet end up against Christoph's thigh, but he doesn't seem to care. Paul is slurping noisily at a mixed vodka concoction with his gray eyes wide and mischievous, his eyebrows waggling.

“If I didn't like you, you would be thrown out the window, I hope you realize,” Richard says flatly, which, startling Richard, has Till's deep laughter filling the living room as he steps between the couch and the coffee table. Paul doesn't have time to react—he has to curl his legs up before Till manages to crush them considering he is now taking a seat where his legs once where.

“Gee, I like you too, buddy,” Paul finally remarks with a wink, and then goes back to slurping noisily at his vodka. Flake departs from the windows to take a seat in one of the armchairs. He seems satisfied with his coffee, for now. Till has his own glass of vodka, and is taking a drink with his gaze trained on the constellation lamp. Saying nothing, Richard drapes his arm along the armrest behind Paul—close enough that his arm is pressed to his shoulders. He's tempted to wrap his other arm around him, but instead wiggles it out from underneath Paul's legs to grab the glass of vodka from his hands. Paul huffs and says petulantly, sarcastically, “Use your big, grown up words, Richard. 'Paul, may I please have some of your vodka?'”

“You're sitting _on_ my 'big and grown up',” Richard remarks, gazing into Paul's eyes with amusement in his own as he takes a drink of his vodka. Till chuckles beside the pair and then speaks up, saying, “Alright, alright. Are we going to watch the movie you promised or not, R?”

“For lack of anything else to do, sure,” Richard says as he passes the drink back to Paul, and then before he could thrust Paul onto the floor, Paul immediately climbs off of him. Then Richard gets up and approaches Till's TV stand, to grab the DVD case he originally brought along with him. As he goes through the trouble of turning on the TV and inserting the disc, Paul steals his spot while Till crosses his legs and leans back into the couch, draping his arm along the back of it—behind Christoph. Christoph had remained silent throughout the exchange, though his attention is regained when Till holds out his own mixed drink in offer.

Meeting Till's gaze, Christoph stares at him blankly, and then shakes his head. Till searches in his calm blue eye and then nods with a slight smile. He subtly strokes at the back of his neck with his thumb. Silently, Christoph watches him with a redness rising to his face—it's so subdued and faint, Till barely catches it. But he does. A sly grin grows on his face, though Richard clearing his throat earns his attention again.

“Alright, so,” Richard begins, an amused expression developing on his stubbly face, “P has already suffered through this with me. T, you witnessed me watching it before, but you hadn't watched it yourself. Now, the whole point of this is for us to criticize Tarantino's inaccuracies.”

“Richard, _no,”_ Paul moans, slumping back into the couch with an exasperated raise of his hands. Richard points a manicured finger at him with a smirk as he says, “Paul, shut your mouth. We are _watching_ this with our very special birthday boy and there's nothing you can do to stop it.”

“Subject me to Paul's suffering. I am intrigued,” Till speaks up with a pleased smile, which has Richard grinning broadly. He begins towards the kitchen, proclaiming proudly, “That's what I like to hear, T! I'm going to get some fucking vodka. Start up the movie, I've seen the opening credits a thousand fucking times.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A month ago I threw together these moodboards that, more or less, summarize their characters in a series of images. [Go check it out!](https://babypaulchen.tumblr.com/tagged/ich%20will%20moodboards)


	21. Ohne Dich Kann Ich Nicht Sein

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter which contains examples of Paul's relationship with every member.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "Without you, I cannot be"
> 
> This is biased, I'm aware, but I wanted to show more of his relationships with the others! Next chapter will have Till/Richard.

**1996**

 

The stench of smoke, wood polish, and fresh night air floods Paul's senses, joined by the bitterness of the beer on his palate. As busy a night as it tends to be on a Saturday, the tables filling the interior of the bar/restaurant had all been claimed, leaving only the tables outside—and even only a few of _those_ were left vacant. Now, Paul and Till share a table outside with the chirping of crickets surrounding them, joined by the chattering of the bustling bar.

A cigarette burns between Till's fore and middle fingers, the smoke curling up like a snake from the smoldering embers. Paul's fingers are tap, tap, tapping at the wood of the table, in an alternating pattern. His other hand is cupped around his beer glass, thumb stroking at the condensation along the side.

“Is there any country you've wanted to visit, T?” Paul asks following a moment of silence, earning a glance from the other man. Bringing his cigarette to his lips, Till arches a brow.

“Yes,” he answers, taking a drag of the cigarette before blowing out the smoke in a stream, angled away from the other man. Paul pauses, waiting for more with an amused look on his face. He grins and presses, “Well, which country?”

“Greece,” Till states, flicking the ash off his cigarette, “The history interests me.”

“Greece is really interesting,” Paul agrees, and then drops his gaze to the contents of his glass, “I visited Athens years ago, when traveling was my thing. I was mostly impressed by the architecture. Some really nice museums, too. I'm not too much into history—I appreciate art more. And sight-seeing. People watching.”

Taking another drag from his cigarette, Till refocuses his gaze on the other man. Paul, meanwhile, drinks from his beer glass, his eyes averted and trained on the interior of the bar beyond the ajar doors leading outside.

With smoke curling out of his lips, Till speaks again, asking lowly, “You've talked of that before; how you would travel before getting into this work. Where did you go?”

Eyebrows raising, Paul fixes his stare back on Till's while licking beer foam from his upper lip. He smiles, setting his glass back down.

“Pretty much everywhere I could. Netherlands, Belgium, Austria, Switzerland... France, Spain, Portugal, back through France to reach Italy. From there, back to Germany for a little while. Then we left to head to Russia. I always wanted to see the Kremlin in person. So we crossed through Poland, Belarus, and spent just a couple days in Russia. It kinda came to a stop after that. I wanted to work down the list of countries, but my, uh, traveling partner got sick of it so I decided to stop myself. Didn't want to travel alone, y'know?”

Till watches the other man silently, taking notice of the slight solemn expression that appears on his boyish face, soon to be replaced by a curious smile and bright eyes. Paul speaks up again, asking enthusiastically, “So, what about you? Surely you've gotten out of Germany in the past?”

Contemplating, Till takes a last drag of his cigarette, the lit tobacco at the tip glowing with intensity. Reaching out, he stubs the cigarette into the ashtray and then rises with a creak of the wooden bench.

“To keep the suspense alive,” Till begins sarcastically, straightening his coat, “I'll tell you after I take a piss.”

Paul laughs and nods. Till rounds the table and begins towards the open doors leading into the bar.

 

The bathroom is nearly empty save for one man in a stall. Following a piss at the urinals, Till stands at the sinks, languidly washing his broad hands with a distant expression on his face. Beer sits warm in his belly, sending this buzz through his skin. The two of them have been working through practically a vat of beer, and just now it's beginning to hit him. He lazily shakes his hands off and then rips three paper towels from the dispenser to dry them off.

With a slight limp, he pushes his way out of the bathroom and begins through the crowded interior of the bar. He navigates his way between passing people and the people seated at the bar, until he reaches the doors leading outside.

Once he steps onto the patio, he pauses, taking notice of a group of three men standing at their table, all clutching glasses of beer in hand. At first, Till assumed Paul got up and left, but upon closer observation, he realizes Paul is still seated with a look of confusion on his face. One of those men reaches up to drunkenly ruffle Paul's hair, which earns a curled lip and a smack of Paul's hand, which has them laughing. Paul stands from his seat with a scrape of wood, unafraid to face them if need be. He's beginning to look very angry, and Till doesn't want the dog to go rabid in such a place as this.

Stepping closer, Till hears one of them say, “Ooh, for such a small guy, he's got some spirit, doesn't he?”

Jaw clenching, Till approaches them from behind with a click of his knee brace, earning a glance from one of those three men. His appearance must have freaked him out enough to alert the others with a nudging of his hand—Till isn't surprised. He's massive, sporting a mohawk, wearing a tight t-shirt that accentuates his muscles, and his face is displaying irritation. Paul's face softens slightly when he notices Till.

“What the fuck do you want?” Till growls, which has the other three men stumbling back slightly, knocking into the table. They've obviously indulged in the drink too much; must be why they're picking on Paul.

“Your buddy seemed lonely,” the bolder one sneers while eying him up and down, “We were just saying _hi._ ”

“Your bullshit is transparent,” Till remarks, “And I'm not in the mood to deal with it. Fuck off.”

Not exactly the most eloquent he's been, but he's not particularly sober, either. The other man narrows his eyes and lifts a hand, albeit drunkenly, and jabs a finger into Till's chest, saying with a grimace, “Just because you're a big guy, doesn't make you a tough guy. I think your gimp leg says enough. I got a bit of an advantage if you can barely walk five steps. Wouldn't you agree?”

Reaching up, Till grabs his finger and twists it hard with a violent jerk of his hand—the brutal force has it dislocating with an audible pop. The other man buckles and cries out sharply, dropping his beer with a crash of glass on the floor of the patio. The remnants of his beer splash over Till's boots. Till continues holding him up by that finger despite the other man's desperate struggling, which has him yelling in agony. His screams overlap Till's flatly spoken, “No.”

Then he lets him go; he collapses onto the patio, slipping on his spilled beer, and cradles his hand to his chest.

“You fucking asshole!” he screams at Till, and then proceeds to curl up in agony and groan in pain. Till glances towards the other two men—they look at him with horror.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” one of them demands, with disgust. Till clenches a hand into a fist and with a sharp swing of his arm and a twist of his torso, his fist connects with the center of that man's face; he stumbles back into his friend and they both end up crashing to the floor.

Maybe that was excessive. Till just felt like doing it.

“T, what the fuck!” he hears Paul say, above the noise of both men cursing at Till. Meeting Paul's gaze, Till finds a mixture of shock and annoyance on his face, a hand raised in an exasperated gesture. And past Paul, Till sees many eyes trained on them, as well as startled faces. Till shrugs.

“Come on,” he says, “Let's go.”

“Ugh,” Paul bemoans, though he does relent; after downing the remainder of his beer and pinning money under the empty glass, he steps over the two men collapsed on the floor. Till takes his bicep in hand and leads him towards the iron gate surrounding the outside patio. Paul jerks his arm out of his hold and snaps, “I'm not a goddamn child, I can go!”

Till watches Paul shove open the gateway and step out onto the sidewalk. Till follows and latches the gate shut behind them.

Considering they walked here from Till's apartment, they have no getaway vehicle. Instead, they pace side by side down the sidewalk—Paul has his hands in the pockets of his pants, while Till is rubbing his hands over his face.

“It wasn't that big a deal,” Paul begins, “But thanks, I guess. It was satisfying seeing you break that guy's finger.”

“I knew you would appreciate that.”

“The punch was unnecessary though.”

“Was it? He was an accomplice.”

Paul glances towards Till, and Till returns it, though the darkness of the night hides some of his features. They pass an illuminated store; now Till can see the amused look on Paul's boyish face (a face yet to be marred by a gruesome burn scar).

“You just wanted to punch him.”

“Yes.”

“I'm surprised they didn't go running as soon as they saw you. I don't think even two of me put together will meet your size.”

“The beer emboldened them. Usually, yes, they are smart and leave.”

Following an amused snort from Paul, silence reclaims its place. They pass a row of trees, parked cars, and a late-hour restaurant. Paul begins to kick at a noticeable rock, and Till decides to play along—he kicks it back into play when it skips over onto his side. Paul starts to giggle as they kick it back and forth, until Till kicks it a little too hard. It ricochets off a wall and back onto the street, out of reach. Paul makes a dejected noise, though he doesn't complain. Till notices the moon hanging low in the sky, partially hidden by the clouds. Cars drive past them with their headlights piercing the darkness, illuminating the pair as well as the flowers and trees around them. They walk past another late-hour restaurant; the bike rack positioned in the front is nearly full. The distant sound of conversation and the clinking of dishware reach their ears.

“You never told me where you've traveled,” Paul begins, removing his hands from his pockets to cross his arms, rubbing at his biceps through his flannel shirt. Till hums and continues watching the moon as they walk, saying lowly, “I've been to counties surrounding Germany... I've been to America.”

“That's it?”

“I delved into the work of the organization early on in my life. Traveling became unimportant.”

“Ah, okay.”

“Do you want to stay the night, or will you be going home?” Till asks then, earning a glance from gray eyes. Till looks at him and arches a brow, searching his pensive face. Paul shrugs.

“Well, I can't drive. I drank a little too much.”

“Right.”

“So...”

“You can stay the night.”

“Thanks, T.”

Smiling faintly, Till reaches out to pat him on the back, and then ruffles his dark hair with a broad hand. Paul grins at him and swats weakly at his arm. Till chuckles and grips the back of his neck affectionately as he muses, “Now I understand why he was tempted to do that. That was fun.”

“Shut up, you dick,” Paul says, past a few giggles.

Considering his tipsy state, Till bursts out a deep laugh himself and then ruffles his hair again.

 

* * *

 

**1999**

 

Rain falls heavy and unrelenting against the roof of Paul's flat. It drums loudly above them, a lulling sound that is more comforting than anything. The rainwater runs in rivulets down across the glass panes of Paul's bedroom window, watched tiredly by gray eyes.

The sound of returning footsteps earns his lackluster gaze. Richard comes pacing into his bedroom, cupping a steaming mug in his hands. Carefully, he sets the honeyed tea on Paul's nightstand and then crosses his arms with uncertainty, his lips pursed and brow furrowed. Paul props up on an elbow, and then begins to cough, his body heaving with each one. Richard frowns, watching him. Paul coughs into his blanket to avoid spreading germs anymore than he already has. Once the coughing fit passes, he takes the mug of tea in hand and then glances up towards Richard with a weak, dazed smile.

“Thanks, R,” he murmurs, quietly.

“Sure. Do you need anything else?”

Paul peers down into the murky contents of his mug and shakes his head a little. He warily brings the tea to his lips and takes a careful sip. Richard stands there with unease, unsure what to do now. He wants to be of more use, but Paul isn't making it easy.

“Well, I can make you some food. Or I can grab you a book, or something?”

Paul shakes his head again and then takes a longer drink of the sweet tea. Richard huffs and looks at the other man with concern. Paul coughs a little following another drink, and then sets the tea back down.

“You can go, I'll be fine,” he says, voice lowered and soft to avoid aggravating his throat any further. Richard shakes his head.

“I want to be here. My day is open for you, P. If you want or need anything, just say the word.”

A weak smile appears on Paul's flushed face. He nods, a few weak coughs breaking free.

“I want to sleep for now,” he murmurs, looking up into Richard's concerned green eyes, “If you want to stay, then I guess make yourself at home.”

“Okay. I'll be in the living room if you need me.”

“Thanks.”

Paul gives him another faint smile and then shifts to lay back down, drawing his thick covers higher up over himself, up to his chin. He begins coughing more violently; laying down tends to evoke a coughing fit. Richard, feeling particularly responsible for the well-being for his partner, steps closer and reaches out to adjust the blankets around him, by straightening them and then tucking them tighter around his body. Paul begins to laugh amongst his coughs, and brings his hand out from under the blankets to playfully swat at Richard's hands. Richard faintly smiles as he just continues tucking him in, ignoring his weak protests.

“You're babying me, Richard,” Paul accuses, which has the other man snorting. Richard shrugs, smiling.

“Sleep well, P.”

“I'll try.”

 

Throughout the two hours Richard spends alone, he investigates Paul's movie collection, is severely disappointed, but puts one on anyways. The volume is turned low so as to prevent muffling Paul's voice if he were to call for him. As Richard sits slumped back on Paul's couch, he sometimes hears him cough beyond the noise of the movie. He doubts he's getting much sleep to begin with, considering how often he's coughing.

After Richard becomes bored with attempting to play Paul's Sega Saturn one-handed, he does hear the creak of footsteps and weak coughing emerging from the hallway. It has him rising and stepping around the couch to see Paul shuffling his way towards the bathroom. Paul glances over and notices him too; and he looks like shit. His eyes are reddened from coughing, his lips are wet, and his cheeks are flushed. His hair is a mess.

“Uh, you okay?” Richard asks, unhelpfully. Paul shrugs.

“I'm going to take a shower. I feel overheated.”

“Okay, good. Make sure the water is lukewarm, but on the cold side.”

Nodding, Paul hesitates at the open door of the bathroom, hand on the door frame, gaze downcast. He glances up to meet Richard's concerned stare and then says quietly, “I am starting to feel hungry... If you're still willing, I'd like that food now, after I shower.”

Richard is well aware he hasn't eaten anything today yet. He smiles—finally, he can do something to help Paul.

“Of course, P. What do you want?”

Paul raises a hand to sluggishly rub it over his face, and then drops it against his side with a sigh. He shrugs.

“Eggs... Fruit.”

“Right. I know blueberries help with respiratory infections.”

Paul gives him a thumbs up and then paces tiredly into the bathroom, to shut the door behind himself. Feeling invigorated, Richard turns to enter Paul's kitchen. Reaching the fridge, he draws it open and scans for blueberries—which Paul doesn't seem to have. Doesn't surprise him. Paul has never expressed a fondness for blueberries. There are a few eggs left, and a box of old strawberries. This isn't enough.

Hurrying back out to the hallway, Richard pauses and listens through the bathroom door; he hears the shifting of cloth, the quiet running of the sink faucet, and Paul's strained breathing.

“P?” Richard calls. A pause, and then a tired, “What?”

“I'm going out to get more fruit. I'll be back in half an hour.”

“Yeah, sure. I'll still be here, sick and stuff.”

Richard snorts and says, “Okay.”

“Don't talk to me anymore. I'm naked now. That makes it weird.”

Richard nearly laughs again, but he manages to repress it and say with an amused tone of voice, “But I wanted to have a full conversation through your bathroom door!”

Without gaining a reply, Richard then hears the rattling of the shower curtain, followed by the starting of the shower. Richard chuckles and steps away from the bathroom door, out of the hallway, and towards his shoes resting by the front door of Paul's apartment.

 

Upon returning, a bag in hand, Richard kicks off his boots and removes his fur-lined coat dripping with rainwater. He hangs up Paul's umbrella after closing it and then steps into the living room. It's empty, and upon peeking into the hallway, he notices the bathroom door is open—Paul must be in bed again. Richard enters the kitchen to begin cooking.

It doesn't take long. Five minutes to coat the inside of the pan with butter and fry two eggs, to make him another cup of honeyed tea, and to rinse the blueberries and fresh strawberries he bought. He considered making them into a smoothie for easier consumption, but considering Paul doesn't have a blender, it's not an option.

He'll have to make two trips to transfer everything to Paul's bedroom. First he takes the bowl of fruit and plate of eggs. Thankfully, Paul's bedroom door is slightly ajar. He nudges it open and peeks in to see Paul curled up and shivering on his bed. His bloodshot eyes fix on him. Richard gives him a weak smile and paces in to quietly set the food down on his nightstand amongst the empty mug of tea and bottle of medicine.

“You doing okay?” Richard asks, moving to take a seat beside Paul on the bed. He reaches out to rub his hand over his arm underneath the blanket, concerned by his shuddering. Paul doesn't say anything, he just closes his eyes. Richard continues rubbing his hand up and down over his arm, and then over his back. Paul's hand suddenly peeks out from under the covers to grip his thigh and squeeze, which surprises Richard. Cracking his eyes open, Paul meets his gaze and gives him a weak smile.

“Thank you for being here for me,” he says quietly, and then turns his head to cough into his pillow. He meets Richard's gaze again and goes on, saying, “I don't want you to get sick, though. So... You can go now if you want. Thanks for the food.”

Smiling faintly, Richard searches his flushed face. Speaking softly, he murmurs, “I made you some more tea, too. Let me fetch that and then I'll be back.”

Paul nods weakly. He retracts his hand and then Richard gets up to exit the bedroom. He retrieves the tea from the kitchen counter and brings it to Paul's bedroom. Once inside again, he notices Paul is now sitting up, propped against the wall parallel to his bed. Paul gives him a weak smile, eyes lidded and tired—he's sticking blueberries into his mouth.

“Here,” Richard says, placing the tea on his nightstand. Paul mutters a tired thanks and resumes feeding fruit into his mouth. Crossing his arms, Richard eyes Paul up and down. He's wearing sweatpants and a mustard colored sweater with ribbed sleeves, the cuffs torn in places. Must be his comfort clothing. Or his 'I'm sick and suffering' clothing. Either way, Richard can't help but think he looks cute, and then immediately shakes the thought with a furrow of his brow.

“I'll let you eat and get some sleep,” he begins, meeting Paul's lazy gaze, “But, seriously, call me if you need anything.”

“I should survive the night,” Paul remarks, and then continues chewing languidly on some strawberry. Richard smiles faintly and nods.

“Good. If you don't, then I'll come over and kick your ass.”

“But I would already be dead.”

“It would be such a good ass-kicking, you would feel it in the afterlife.”

“Shit. I better survive, then.”

“Uh huh.”

Paul smiles faintly; Richard grins.

“Get some sleep, P,” he says, smiling gentler now, and then waits for a slight nod from the other man before he turns to leave.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, O, whatcha doin'?” Paul asks suddenly on a slow day at the office, plopping down on the sectional beside the much taller man. Oliver pans his cool gaze from his open writing pad to settle it on Paul, who is staring at him with a smile and raised eyebrows. Oliver lifts the writing pad and says, “Writing.”

“What are you writing?” Paul prods, rudely peering over to stare at his handwriting—which is very nice and neat, he realizes. Ollie exhales and answers flatly, “A grocery list and a to-do list.”

“Can I see it?” Paul asks, looking at up at Oliver's stony face with hope on his own. Oliver furrows his brow with a frown, confused. Though he relents. He has nothing to hide. He passes the writing pad to the other man, who enthusiastically takes it. Paul scans it quickly with disinterest and then holds out a hand. He looks up at Oliver expectantly. Ollie stares at him. Paul arches a brow and shakes his hand with emphasis. Ollie stares at him. Paul begins making a very obnoxious, demanding whining noise as he shakes his open hand again. Oliver relents and hands him the pen.

“You're being annoying on purpose,” he observes. Paul laughs dryly and clicks the spring of the pen as he mutters, “As if I'm not annoying all the time?”

“You're not,” Oliver says, flatly. That earns a glance from Paul, and a slight smile. Then he turns back to the writing pad and brings his armed hand down to begin scribbling something at the bottom of Ollie's to-do list. With a furrowed brow, Ollie watches over his shoulder as he writes down in all capital letters: “HANG OUT WITH PAUL!!!”

Then Paul underlines it three times.

Slapping the pen on top of the writing pad, he passes it back to Oliver and says with a grin, “Damn, it looks like you have to hang out with me now. Do you like video games at all, O?”

For a long, silent pause, Oliver stares down at his defiled list, face expressionless. At least, until the slightest, faintest smile curls at his lips. He flicks his gaze up to meet Paul's—Paul blinks and stares at that rare smile in awe, until Ollie speaks, which has it fading away.

“I don't play video games. But I don't mind them.”

“Well, let me reintroduce you to them,” Paul remarks with a smile and a waggling of his eyebrows, reaching out to nudge Ollie on the shoulder with a fist, “I want you to come over and hang out with me. You haven't yet. I know you're not here to make friends, but c'mon. I wanna kick your butt in video games, too. I gotta work down the list.”

Ollie nods and flips his writing pad shut, before returning his pen to the inner pocket of his suit coat.

“Sure. I have three hours free on Thursday.”

“What, are you always busy or something? You got a girlfriend?”

“Do I?” Oliver muses, and then rises from the sectional to make his way towards the bathroom. He leaves behind a grinning Paul who shouts after him, demanding with a laugh, “Do you?!”

 

* * *

 

**1994**

 

The snow is unrelenting today. It rains down upon him in gusts, clouding his vision as he squints beyond the sheets of snowflakes. It builds rapidly in his bleached hair, clings to his facial hair. It's wetting the collar of his jacket. Considering his boots are falling apart, they're not doing a very good job at keeping the wet snow _out._ He's cold and miserable and he just wants to sleep.

Finally, after walking for an hour out on the streets, Paul reaches the correct, shitty apartment building. He shoves in through the doors with the peeling paint and graffiti and then stomps his way up to the line of intercom buzzers while violently shaking out his jacket. Reaching out, he presses his thumb to the one labeled with Flake's apartment number, and spams it impatiently until there's feedback, followed by an irritated, “Have you ever heard of the noun called 'patience', you goddamn prick? What! Who is this?!”

“Hi, Flake,” Paul says past a smile. There's a moment of silence, and then a sigh.

“Come up,” Flake says flatly, and then a slight click indicates Flake turned off the intercom. Paul all too happily makes his way up the winding staircase, hand gliding along the banister.

 

“Do you want coffee or tea?” Flake asks after letting the older man in, who is now removing his damp jacket and kicking off his soaked boots. Paul glances up at him and smiles.

“Coffee! With lots of milk and sugar, if you got it.”

Saying nothing, Flake turns away and enters his kitchen. As he pulls his hairband out of his long locks, Paul eyes the other man up and down. He's still as skinny as a beanpole since the last time he's seen him, and like usual, he bundles up in thick sweaters and loose jeans to compensate. At least he's looking healthy. Healthier than he used to be—he's got color in his face and his eyes aren't as dull. Paul smiles faintly to himself as he rakes his fingers through his dampened blonde locks, to pull them back into a tight, high ponytail.

“So, what I miss?” Paul pipes up, pacing across Flake's living room to join him in the small kitchen—there, he crosses his arms and leans against the counter. Flake stands shaking some sugar into Paul's coffee mug, eyes peering down at his work beyond his thick-framed glasses as he says, “Not much has changed. I am still doing my studies, and I am still doing work for them.”

Silence hangs for a moment. Paul watches the other man spin a spoon within the contents of his mug, his long, slender fingers somehow elegant around the utensil. Eyes becoming distant with thought, Paul stares at the swirling dark liquid within the mug until Flake goes on, saying quietly, “I'm not dead. So all is well.”

Paul blinks and looks up at him with a slight smile on his boyish face. He nods and reaches out to pat him on the back, earning a glance from the corner of his eye.

“I agree,” Paul says in a murmur, his smile becoming tight and strained, “I'm glad you're doing well.”

Flake furrows his brow slightly and searches Paul's face. Paul sighs and straightens up from the counter to meander back into Flake's living room. He rounds his coffee table cluttered with half-empty mugs, open books and notebooks, as well as an ashtray which contains a lit cigarette. Flopping down on the torn couch, Paul reaches out to pluck the cigarette from the ashtray. He brings it to his lips and takes a drag with his tired eyes closing, head dipping back against the backrest of the couch. He exhales the smoke with a sigh. A moment later, he hears the sound of footsteps, followed by the clinking of ceramic against wood.

“What are you doing back so soon?” Flake asks. Paul opens his eyes to see Flake stepping around the coffee table to take a heavy seat beside him. Paul scoots over to give him more room. He looks at him with exhaustion. Flake searches his face, a concerned expression on his own. Paul stares at him, lips pressed together. He drops his gaze to Flake's hands which rest linked in his lap. He holds out the cigarette. Flake takes it and puts it out in the ashtray. Paul sighs and speaks, lowly.

“Consider me a single man, now,” he muses bitterly, eyes rolling up to the ceiling, “A suitable bachelor for all the ladies.”

“What,” Flake begins flatly, earning Paul's gaze—there's confusion on Flake's face. He looks at Paul with bewilderment and then asks, “What do you mean? What happened?”

Paul shrugs and then moves to sit up a little straighter. He runs his hands over his thighs, across his damp jeans, and then lets out a breath as he hangs his hands between them, his shoulders sagging. He shrugs again, lackluster.

“Nikki left me 'cause she wanted someone who had plans. I don't have a plan.”

He pauses, throat tightening. He shakes his head a little and reaches up to rub at his face. He takes a slow breath, attempting to relieve that constricting feeling. Anxiety seizes his insides.

“In Russia, Nikki said she was tired of traveling, and of me, and she wanted to leave. I said I wanted to keep going. She didn't like that, so... She expressed she didn't want to be stuck with me anymore. I don't know. We tried talking it out but there was no solution. She was right, I don't have any plans. I don't know what I'm gonna fucking do. Shit.”

His voice had begun to crack so he shuts his mouth—he didn't want to divulge all of this to Flake, anyways. He hates opening up to others, even if it's a close friend. He presses his thumbs into his closed eyes and sighs, though the exhale comes out shaky. He then angrily rubs his hands over his face, rips them away, and reaches for his mug of coffee. Beside him, Flake is silent, motionless. After Paul had taken a drink of coffee and calmed down, Flake speaks quietly.

“I'm sorry that happened. But she had the right to back away. Everyone wants a stable life, and the one you were living wasn't.”

That has Paul internally wincing. He retreats by saying nothing. He cups his hands around his mug and holds it between his thighs—it begins to warm him up.

“But now is the time to make a plan,” Flake begins again, “So what are you going to do?”

“I don't know.”

“Paul, start from the beginning. You're going to find a job.”

“I could mooch off of you and sleep on your couch,” Paul says with sarcasm, peeking over at him with a slight smirk. Flake stares at him with a lack of amusement.

“No.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Finding work isn't hard for me.”

“Where are you going to start?”

Paul leans back into the couch and lazily crosses his legs as he brings the coffee to his lips. He noisily slurps at it as he stares straight into Flake's calm blue eyes. Then he smiles thinly and says with a waggle of his eyebrows, “With you. Get a word in to your boss. What was his name? Dill? Give me a chance, Flake.”

“It's _Till,_ and you are not getting anywhere near my workplace. Especially not with that hairstyle.”

“What? What's wrong with it?”

“It's not professional. You look like you're sixteen.”

“So you're saying if I get a nice, mature haircut then you'll give me a chance?”

“No.”

“I'll take that as a yes.”

“I literally said no. That is the polar opposite of yes.”

“Well, guess what, Flake, I am never going to give up until you tell Dill that I am ready to kiss his ass at any time for the sake of maintaining an income. But with more impressive, convincing phrasing that you always manage to come up with. I know you won't let me down.”

“...Why did I even let you up here?”

 

* * *

 

**1998**

 

Today has not been a good day.

He woke up from a nightmare about being forcefully drowned in blood by countless hands, which left him anxious and on-edge throughout his morning routine. The shower water never became hot because his _neighbor_ was taking an excessively long shower. His breakfast was unappetizing. The day is cold, with clouds rolling in and blocking the sun he so dearly wants right now. He is stiff, tired, and irritated as he drives to work.

At the office, he's immediately ordered to go pick up some paperwork from Tägtgren for Till, because _today_ it seems Till has no patience for lounging around and doing nothing. Though, relieving some of Paul's irritation, Richard offers to come along.

They stopped for some coffee, and Richard, as usual, flirted a bit with the barista, except this time she was into it and _reciprocated._ So Paul was left waiting for Richard to move the fuck out of the way so he could pay for his fucking coffee. Once again, he had been reminded that Richard is the handsome, sexy asshole that women always fawn over, and he's the deformed, ugly sad sack of shit who can only watch as Richard soaks it up smugly. Thoroughly pissed, Paul had slapped his money onto the counter and shoved past Richard to make his way towards the bathroom to cool down.

 

After the paperwork had been delivered and Paul is left only with the semi-daily inventory review, he gratefully plunges himself into it if only for the distraction.

Thankfully, the shitty start to his day doesn't worsen. It had managed to effectively put him in a foul mood, but it doesn't get worse. He's sent on two more errands by Till: going out to buy them all lunch, on Till's dime, and consulting with an affiliate, which takes up three hours. It keeps him busy. For the most part, he's able to calm down and occupy himself with tasks and paperwork. For once, he's not attempting to distract the others.

Once Till excuses them for the day due to the lack of work and assignments, Paul is grateful. He plans to take a long, hot bath, eat at his favorite restaurant because he fucking deserves it, play video games, and then pass the fuck out just to put an end to this day. He did _not_ plan for Christoph to follow him to his car in the parking lot.

“What, C?” Paul speaks up as soon as he's cornered at his car door, readying his key to get it unlocked. Standing beside him, Christoph has his own keys in his gloved hand, his other hand clutching a manilla folder under his arm. Christoph is silent beside him. Paul glances at him with impatience and says, “You have ten seconds before I get into my car and drive off.”

Christoph blinks and looks surprised. Paul gives him a wry smile as he slowly pushes his key into the keyhole of the car door, saying slowly, “One...”

He unlocks it with a twist of the key.

“Two...”

He opens the door with a snap of the handle and begins to slowly pull it open, arching a brow at the other man who watches him with a frown. Meanwhile, Ollie is getting into _his_ car to their right, which he then starts with a rev of an engine. Richard is already gone for the day, and Till and Flake have stayed behind.

“Three...”

“I want to come over to your place,” Christoph says flatly, staring down into his faintly amused eyes. Paul's face straightens. He looks at Christoph with confusion, and then distrust. He just wants to relax. He doesn't want to play host.

“Why?” he demands.

“Because I want to spend time with you,” Christoph answers, and then adjusts his cuffs casually with a slight clearing of his throat. Searching in his cloudy and vibrant blue eyes, Paul watches him with a narrow-eyed gaze.

“You're just saying that because you can tell I'm pissed. You actually don't give a fuck about spending time with me.”

 _“_. _..No,_ you're wrong. If I didn't care, why would I bother asking? You know I don't waste time and effort on things I don't care about. And why are you pissed?”

Paul sighs and deflates against the car door. He rolls his eyes and looks up into Christoph's again as he says, “Christoph, you can come over, but I am not going to entertain you. If you want to hang out, then I'm not going to put effort into it. I'm tired as hell.”

“I am not asking for entertainment,” Christoph snaps sharply, frowning deeply, which startles the other man. Surprised and defensive, Paul furrows his brow and remains silent. Christoph squares his jaw, staring down into Paul's eyes, and says quietly, “I... _enjoy_ being in your presence not because of what you _do,_ but for who you _are._ Do you understand? Suggesting I want you to be entertaining is insulting. How could you think I expect that of you?”

Because everyone does, Paul wants to bitterly spit back, but instead he just rubs at his face and sighs heavily. He doesn't want to be a dramatic brat, even if he's irritated. And least of all to _Christoph._

“Yeah, okay, sure,” Paul says, sighing, “Follow me in your car.”

 

At his apartment, Paul shoves the door open as soon as he gets it unlocked, and then impatiently yanks off his dress shoes to be tossed aside. Christoph follows in silently and shuts the door behind himself, before locking it. After hanging up his keys, Paul immediately, tiredly paces through his living room to enter the hallway, if only to shove into his bedroom, leaving behind Christoph who begins removing his shoes in a more suitable manner.

In his bedroom, Paul violently yanks off the individual pieces of his suit; first the suit coat, then the tie, then the button-up shirt, followed by his belt, his slacks, and then his socks. Now only in his underwear, he digs sweatpants out from the mound of clothing by the foot of his bed and steps into it. He approaches his closet to retrieve a sweater from within—he chooses the striped one, for comfort's sake.

Now redressed in leisure clothing, Paul exits his bedroom and enters the bathroom, in the hallway. There, he washes his scarred face and brushes his teeth, to fully cleanse himself of the filth built from the long day. Once feeling refreshed and not so shitty, Paul steps out of the bathroom and reenters the living room. He finds Christoph standing in the kitchen, his broad back facing him. He's making a pot of coffee. His leather gloves had been removed and placed on the countertop. Paul checks the clock on the stove as he quietly paces into the kitchen; it's only 14:30.

Christoph glances towards him, and then looks him up and down. Paul crosses his arms and says reluctantly, “If you plan on making me a mug...”

“Plentiful sugar and milk.”

“You got it.”

Christoph nods. Paul turns and leaves the kitchen, his feet quiet against the linoleum and then shortly after, the carpet of the living room. He makes his way to the couch, navigating around the coffee table. He flops down and grabs the blanket haphazardly thrown across the other end of the couch to drape it entirely over his head and body, shielding himself from the outside world.

That feels better.

Or at least, it does for a brief moment.

It makes him think of 1987. It has him opening his eyes and staring at the interior of the maroon quilted blanket, illuminated softly by the living room light overhead.

He is reminded of squatting in a shitty apartment with Flake and Nikki. It would become extremely frigid at night because the place had no heating, and hardly any insulation—this was before he and Nikki began traveling. The three of them would get under the covers just like this, completely enveloped and laying packed together like sardines. Paul would tell endless stories, recollections, memories, plans for the future that would never be fulfilled, until they would beg for him to shut up so they can get some sleep. Even now, thinking about it, Paul knows Flake only went along with it in the first place because he didn't have enough fat on his skinny twig of a body to keep himself warm enough to obtain sleep. It has Paul smiling weakly—he really does feel like he's in another world now, laying under the blanket like this.

But it hurts, too. He doesn't want to think about it. He doesn't want to be reminded of it. He doesn't want to be _reminded_ of how he's really, truly alone now. God, he's so fucking sick of how pitiful he is.

Agitated, Paul violently shoves the blanket off of himself and is immediately greeted by the sight of Christoph pacing into the living room, carrying two mugs. Hair wild, Paul looks up at him, staring at his slender face as he leans over to set both mugs on the coffee table. Christoph's piercing eyes flick up to meet his.

“What do you plan on doing?” Christoph asks, and then steps around the coffee table to take a seat beside him, the springs of the couch squeaking in protest. He leans forward to rest his forearms against his knees, hands loosely linked together by his long fingers. Paul stares down at them distantly, taking notice of how he has a long, narrow scar winding up his index finger. Lifting a hand, Paul points at it and asks quietly, “How did you get that?”

Christoph drops his gaze to his hands and unravels his fingers to eye the one Paul indicated.

“A knife,” he answers. Paul stares at the scar numbly and asks, “How?”

Silent for a moment, Christoph seemingly contemplates. He speaks lowly, in explanation.

“When I was sixteen, my... Friends wanted to play five finger fillet, and chose me as the victim.”

“Uh, they don't sound like great friends.”

Christoph strokes a fingertip along the scar and makes a slight thoughtful noise.

“Maybe not. But I felt less alone around them.”

Saying nothing, Paul watches him turn his hands around—he has a few more scars winding around his fingers, a couple on his palms. He has two scarred knuckles on his right hand. Christoph threads his fingers together again and says quietly, “The rest are just from accidents and work.”

For a moment, they sit in silence. Paul stares at Christoph's hands, until Christoph reaches out to grab his mug of coffee. He takes a slow drink, sets it back on the table, and then looks at Paul. Paul glances up to meet his gaze. Christoph's blue eye is eerily gentle.

Spontaneously, he reaches out to grab Christoph by the forearm. Arching a brow, Christoph warily lets him. Paul scoots closer and manhandles Christoph's arm by drawing it around himself; he rests his body against Christoph's and lays his head upon his shoulder. His messy hair sticks up and stabs the other man in the neck and jaw. Christoph stiffens up entirely.

“What are you doing?” he demands quietly, with tension. Paul wiggles closer and tries getting comfortable. His legs are angled oddly considering their arrangements—he decides to curl them up on the couch, making himself smaller. He adjusts his head on Christoph's shoulder while gently tightening his muscular, lean arm around himself. Then he lets his wrist go and rests his own arm limply in his own lap. Christoph is silent beside him. Paul stares down at their legs and says nothing.

Rather than keep his arm draped awkwardly around Paul's back, pinned to the couch, Christoph shifts so he can comfortably wind it around Paul's waist, his hand resting atop the cushion and against Paul's hip.

Closing his eyes, Paul wills for this to make him feel better. In the back of his mind, he knows this is bizarre and awkward, but he's enjoying it regardless. Christoph isn't soft, really, because he's still tense, but he's warm. He's one of his closest friends and they've never... _Cuddled_ like this before. It's strange, but Paul wanted this. It feels... Good. The physical contact is nice, and soon enough it brings the slightest smile to his face. It makes him think of how it used to be years ago, when it was just the two of them together, all the time. When Christoph would let him get away with moments of affection. Before Christoph's responsibilities darkened, and essentially stole him from Paul.

He wants to know what Christoph is thinking, but he's not going to ask.

He feels Christoph shift slightly, which has Paul opening his eyes. He notices Christoph is raising his hand. He's turning it to reveal his palm. They both stare down at it. There's a jagged scar running along the flesh of his inner thumb.

“When I was very young,” Christoph begins softly, “When I lived with my mother... We had a unused shed in the backyard. I was exploring it due to boredom. I tripped and caught my fall with a three-inch nail that was sticking up from a board of wood.”

Then Christoph turns his hand to reveal the miniscule scar on the other side—it's only a pale mark, but now that attention has been brought to it, Paul can see it clearly.

“Another instance of involuntary five finger fillet,” Paul mumbles. Christoph huffs beside him, in lieu of laughing. Paul can feel his ribcage flex against him, through the layers of their clothing.

“I suppose so,” Christoph says, his tone amused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, just as a reminder, I update the timeline every time I post a new chapter!


	22. Weh Mir, Oh Weh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard struggles with his feelings after kissing Paul for the first time. After feeling rejected, depressed and clinging to any distraction, Richard realizes he can find satisfaction in another man. He doesn't need Paul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "Woe is me, oh woe" or "Hurt me, oh pain" I don't know really, translations were unclear.
> 
> So sorry for the long wait! I'm excited to finally get this fic going again. I have a lot planned. 
> 
> This chapter is a throwback to the second chapter of the series, when Richard kisses Paul following the dinner party, if that wasn't clear already!
> 
> Warning for rough sex and derogatory dirty talk.

**November, 1998**

 

Snow clings to the fur lining the hood of his coat, dampens his black locks, builds in the creases of his coat. Beyond the drifts of thick snowflakes, Richard watches the lights. Up beyond the balcony of the apartment building, the kitchen light is on. It has been for the last ten minutes. Maybe he’s cooking. Maybe he’s just being a forgetful idiot and left it on. Richard continues standing there, endlessly contemplating. A lit cigarette burns between two manicured fingers, his hands submerged in the pockets of his coat save for those two fingers. He stands under a lamppost, hardly shielded from the barrage of snowflakes.

“ _Scheiße,_ ” Richard hisses, turning his head away to break his gaze from the kitchen window. He brings the cigarette to his frowning lips, takes a drag. The smoke burns on the way down, chokes him on the way out. He hates this. He hates this shit. The drama. The feelings. Bullshit, unnecessary emotions that do nothing but burden him.

God damnit. He drags his narrowed eyes back up to the second-floor apartment, just in time to see the kitchen light flick off. He’s in there. (Of course he is.) This is why Richard came here. He has to talk to him. He has to sort out whatever he ruined. He can’t leave it how it is. Just because he got a little drunk, a little impatient, he had to fucking kiss him. Why can’t he ever control himself?

He needs to go up there, fix things. Best case scenario: Paul confesses he was into it and maybe they make out on the couch. Worst case: Paul gets angry and they start arguing, and Richard leaves after successfully making the situation worse. Decent case: ignore it, let the awkwardness fade, and revert back to the tension without making any sort of move. Sounds great.

Richard turns on his heel and begins angrily striding away, chucking his cigarette into the nearest trashcan when he charges past it. He needs to find some sort of release. Maybe he’ll dial up one of his girls.

 

* * *

 

Paul is talking to Christoph. He’s smiling. He’s laughing. He’s leaning into Christoph, slinging an arm around his back, teasing him by nudging him or ruffling his mohawk. He manages to coax out slight smiles here and there, until Christoph receives a phone call and then he’s off again, doing some fucked up job that no one wants to do. Paul deflates slightly, noticeably, upon his departure—for he has to focus on work again. Or maybe he just likes him that damn much. Richard doesn’t know, doesn’t understand.

He wants to demand answers, wants to understand why he seems to cling to Christoph so often, when Christoph obviously isn’t here for comradery. Richard wants to know what _he’s_ doing wrong. As far as he’s aware, he, too, pulls off the “cold, distant asshole” persona well enough. What is Christoph doing that he isn’t? From where he’s standing at the counter by the fridge, Richard fixes himself a rum and pineapple juice mixture, watching Paul take a heavy seat at his desk to begin flipping through papers again. Richard, jaw clenched and eyes hard, turns away to focus on his drink.

After slamming the Malibu back into the fridge and taking an agitated drink, Richard pans his piercing gaze across the interior of the office; Flake and Ollie are missing, for god knows what, and Till is cleaning his gun at the table. When his eyes land on Till, he realizes he’s watching him as he scrubs at the inner barrel with a bore brush, his hard gaze trained on Richard past his brow. Richard frowns. He’s always fucking watched, isn’t he? (But then again, he was watching Paul and Christoph, so he can’t really complain.)

He impatiently works down the remainder of his drink, rinses out the glass, sets it in the drying rack, and then in a moment of spontaneity, he strides up to where Paul sits, who remains oblivious with his back to him.

“P, come have dinner with me,” he demands, clapping a hand down on Paul’s shoulder and leaning in close towards him. Paul jumps, turns to look at him with wide eyes, his raised eyebrows wrinkling his scar. His (cute) lips curl into an incredulous smile. Richard searches his handsome face, pointedly ignores the feeling that simmers in his stomach when Paul looks at him with those kind gray eyes. They’re so close. Richard glances down to Paul’s lips—he couldn’t help it. Recollections of their kiss from three weeks ago flickers through his head. He swallows hard.

“I need to finish this report,” Paul says apologetically with a glance towards the papers on his desk, before fixing his eyes back up on Richard’s, “Can you give me an hour?”

Richard clenches his teeth. He wouldn’t hesitate with Christoph, he knows.

“No,” Richard murmurs, trying to contain his anger with a thin, strained smile twitching on his lips, “Let’s go now! I’m starving, man.”

“Then go without me,” Paul laughs, looking at him with amusement, “I don’t want to hold you up.”

Richard sighs, hangs his head with closed eyes and tightly pressed lips, before raising his head again and looking into Paul’s pretty eyes which are now noticeably reluctant and concerned. Richard speaks lowly, saying, “Never mind. Finish your damn report.”

He straightens up, sharply turns away to stride for the door which leads out into the parking lot. He ignores the two sets of eyes staring deeply into his departing back. They can go fuck themselves, with their judgmental staring. Richard is allowed to flee like a fucking coward whenever he pleases. He slams open the door, strides out of the office and into the chilly winter air. He’s tempted to destroy something. Maybe he’ll go to the firing range, sharpen his shooting. He’s so angry, _all the time_ , and he’s sick of it.

 

* * *

 

A day later, they join Tägtgren and Heitmann for a meeting at a local café they always go to. Heitmann acts more as an adviser than anything these days, considering he transferred the responsibilities as an underboss to Tägtgren. Tägtgren explains the complications of a recent arrangement with another family—Åkerlund requested they refrain from running a prostitution ring in their part of the city, interfering with their operations and gaining additional pressure from the police force. While Tägtgren has expressed this to the men in charge of the ring, some of their lesser pimps aren’t quite listening.

“That’s where you two come in,” Tägtgren begins, indicating towards Paul and Richard with the fork he's been using to pick at his raspberry strudel. The four of them are seated around a rectangular table, cluttered with their drinks. Paul raises his eyebrows with a faint smile, fidgeting his fingers around the handle of his coffee mug, while Richard nods, listening keenly, focused. Heitmann sits back with crossed arms, lounging easily with a passive expression on his face.

“Find the men who aren’t fucking listening,” Tägtgren says, slapping the fork down with a sharp snap against the tabletop, gesturing with a stern finger, “Beat the fuck out of them and _make_ them. The money is never worth the scrutiny of the cops. Especially when it affects Åkerlund. He and his family have done too much for our organization to sweep it under the rug over a couple hundred bucks made by some whores and their greedy, good-for-nothing pimps.”

“Of course, sir,” Paul speaks up with a slight grin toying at his lips, leaning forward to set an elbow on the table, earning the eyes of all three other men, “And I think I have a pretty good idea who it is.”

“Oh, yeah?” Heitmann speaks up, “And who’s that?”

“Letz was boasting about making extra money on the side,” Paul specifies, gesturing with a hand and a roll of his eyes, “Implied he was told not to, but figured he’s just 'bringing in more money for the family as far as he’s concerned’.”

“Letz,” Tägtgren sighs, leaning forward heavily on an elbow and rubbing at his tired face with agitation, his long locks slipping past his shoulders to frame his face, “I should have known. He’s always too ambitious, carelessly so.”

“He just bragged to the wrong guy, I guess,” Paul mused, smiling simply as he brings his mug to his lips, taking another drink of his (extremely sugary and milky) coffee. Richard sits silently. He watches Paul with an expressionless face; he studied the way his lips moved when he talked, observed how he gestured excessively while talking. He always seems to be moving. Always fidgeting, always restless. Richard wonders if stillness bothers him.

Clearing his throat, Richard tears his stare away to train it on their underboss. He speaks plainly, saying, “Letz means well. He’s not trying to cause trouble. He’s just an ignorant dumbass. Thinks the extra money for both himself and the family is a good thing, with no repercussions. Let me talk to him. I’ll smack him around a bit, if he doesn’t listen, but he likes me. I just need to remind him there could be severe consequences if he doesn’t call off his girls.”

Both Tägtgren and Heitmann scrutinize him with varying expressions of relief and appreciation. Tägtgren’s is noticeably more tired. He smiles weakly, nods towards Richard.

“Throw in a punch regardless, for me. I’m getting real sick of picking up after useless dogs who only make my job and my damn life harder.”

“Understood.”

 

After the meeting comes to an end and friendly goodbyes are exchanged, Tägtgren and Heitmann depart. Paul had expressed he wanted to grab a slice of the lemon cake before they left as well. So now, Richard stands beside him in the small line at the register, anxious with his hands in the pockets of his slacks. Paul has that ever-present slight smile on his face, his gray eyes roaming across the people working behind the bar, over the chalkboards hanging up high on the wall, listing the various drinks, flavors, and foods. Richard stares at his profile, hot under the collar. He feels so restless. He finds himself staring at him, often. Paul is oblivious. Richard has to tear his gaze away before it overwhelms him. Why does he have to be like this? Why does he always have to develop attachments towards the ones who don't want him?

“Oooh, they have a new peppermint coffee,” Paul comments suddenly, earning Richard’s shaky gaze again, his hands fidgeting in the pockets of his pants. Paul glances at Richard, grins with an arched brow, “Sounds good.”

“Probably because of the winter season,” Richard replies, dryly. Paul nods, turns back to the cashier now that they’re next. Paul pays for the slice of cake, and then they’re leaving the café _—finally._ AfterPaul refastens his navy blue scarf around his neck, they emerge from within the content warmth of the café to enter the cold bite of the winter afternoon. They're surrounded by the striking white snow as Richard follows him to his car. He waits for him to set the small container with his treat on the roof before he grabs his bicep and pulls him aside, gently. Paul looks up at him with surprise on his boyish face. Richard ducks his head, cursing mentally, and then glances towards the café—no one is around.

“Look,” Richard begins, meeting his eyes again, his heart beginning to race with his face heating, “I’m sorry about last month. I was drunk. I-I should’ve asked, or something.”

It had been picking at him. He isn’t sorry, he really isn’t, but he just wants to address it. He wants to gauge how Paul feels about it. If there’s anything there, anything Richard can seek out. Paul blinks, and then that same soft smile replaces the surprise on his face. Richard stares. They’re so close now. Richard could just kiss that cute fucking smile. He wants to.

Paul bites his lip, glances away fleetingly. He releases a deep breath, visible in the chilly air, and then meets Richard’s intense green eyes again. He speaks lowly, assuredly.

“It’s really fine, Richard. It just happened. Don’t worry about it.”

Paul begins to move to get his keys out of his slacks, but Richard just tightens his grasp on his bicep, stubbornly refusing to accept only that. Paul stills again, looks at him with his smile weakening. Richard rubs his lips together, releases a hard exhale through his nose before he speaks lowly, looking deeply into Paul’s eyes.

“So you were okay with it?”

A moment of tension hangs between them. Paul stares at him with a knit brow and subtle confusion in his enigmatic eyes. Richard waits, face hot and gaze unwaveringly trained on his partner’s. Paul lets out a slight laugh, looks away with a noticeable flustered expression blooming on his face.

“It—It wasn’t a bad thing,” he sputters, twisting his arm out of Richard’s hold, looking down towards their feet, “But I didn’t—I didn’t expect it? It was, I don’t know, it was _fine._ What do you want me to say, R?”

“Did you like it?” Richard asks firmly, quietly. Paul laughs again. Richard feels stupid, embarrassed. Paul glances up at him with a faint smile, as if he were amused. Richard hates this. He hates himself. Paul speaks softly, saying in a tone as if he were consoling a child, “You asked me this already, R. I told you, I didn’t dislike it. It was… Just a kiss. Okay?”

Richard grinds his teeth. He’s blushing hotly out of anger and humiliation.

“Right,” he spits out, hating how pathetically bad he is at masking his emotions, “You’re right. I just wanted to know—wh-what you were thinking, I guess. Shit. I don’t know. Forget it.”

He wants to punch himself. A moment passes, filled with silent regret, until Paul abruptly leans in to press a quick kiss to his cheek—as if he’s trying to mend the situation. Richard’s entire body floods with tension. Paul grins at him, his crow’s feet appearing.

“I thought you had more confidence than that, R. The kiss was fine. It doesn’t matter. It was just a spur of the moment thing. We can just move on.”

Richard opens his mouth, stunned. He looks at Paul, dumbfounded, until Paul digs out his keys and turns to the car, still smiling. Richard takes a moment to work through that brief cheek kiss—it was so like _Paul_ , considering how affectionate he is, so he _doesn’t_ let it get to his head. He tries not to let it, anyways. But what Paul said has that brief moment of giddiness fading to bitterness. It was just a _spur of the moment_ , to him. It’s not like Richard took hours to build up the courage, or anything. It’s not like that’s all Richard thought about weeks before he had the balls to act on it, and it’s not like it’s all he’s thought about ever since.

Angry at himself, as fucking always, Richard kicks away the crushed feeling before it could settle like a brick in his chest. He needs to get over himself. He needs to grow the fuck up. He silently rounds the car to get on the other side, his face expressionless save for the tension in his stubbled jaw.

 

 

* * *

 

The same week, Richard and Till share the office alone. Depression hangs over Richard thickly, like smoke in the air. And of course, being the irritatingly perceptive bastard he is, Till notices. He approaches Richard who sits slouched over at the desk, taking over the responsibility of arranging a shipment of illegal goods by reviewing the costs, the men it will take, _who_ will work the job, when, and where. Usually Paul handles it, and if not Paul, then Christoph, and if Christoph isn’t here, then it’s on Richard. He’s on the verge of landing face-first into the papers from pure boredom when Till steps up to the desk with taps of his cane and clicks of his brace, earning a tired gaze from heavy green eyes.

“You seem like you’re struggling to do anything today,” Till comments with a stoic expression on his handsome face, which has a furrow developing in Richard’s brow. He pauses, seemingly contemplating his next words. He speaks lowly, almost reluctantly, “Like you indulged a bit too much last night. R, where are your limitations? Do you have any, right now?”

He says it without force, without trying to accuse, but it still sets the other man off.

“Oh, Jesus,” Richard groans, rolling his eyes and turning his head away, “For fuck’s sake, getting on my case about this shit is the last thing I need, T. Save it.”

“I know you took another batch from Giroux,” Till speaks again, firmly, stubbornly, leaning in closer over Richard, unwilling to take his dismissal, “And he _called_ me, concerned. He informed me you were acting… ‘Rashly’.”

Richard curses under his breath. Of course Giroux told him. That fucker can’t keep his mouth shut if he feels like something involves him.

“You think I’m going to kill myself, T?” Richard snaps, looks at him with disbelief, “Is that what you’re implying?”

Looking deeply into his agitated green eyes, Till says nothing at first. He simply observes him, scrutinizing him—debating what he should say next. Then he clears his throat and says calmly, “No. I was simply telling you what he told me. So I’m extending his concern through me, because I am also concerned. Don’t do anything without thinking, R. If you have a problem, come talk to me.”

“I was just—“ Richard stammers, suddenly feeling cornered, his functional hand clenching into a fist atop the desk. He pauses, realizing he doesn’t have to take this shit. He shoves up from the desk, strides off towards the other end of the office, groaning as he rubs vigorously at his face with both hands. He gestures with them sharply as he snaps, “I was just upset, okay! I needed a distraction. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to do anything _rash.”_

“Alright,” Till says quietly, placating him through a lowering of his tone, “Good. Now, do you want to tell me what upset you?”

Richard laughs sharply, pauses beside the sectional with his ungloved hand slapping down atop the backrest of it. He shakes his head, grinning with bitter amusement. He feels anxious and restless and _pissed._ He hates how Till is watching him like he were a wild, trapped animal—cautiously. Richard speaks lowly, turning away.

“Hell, no. Forget about it, T. I’m sorry for coming in hungover. I should’ve just stayed at home.”

He’s not sorry, but he just wants this discussion to end. Unfortunately, he hears the clicking of Till’s brace when he begins walking towards him. He joins him at the sectional. Richard looks up at him reluctantly, with a clenched jaw and guarded eyes. Till gazes down at him with a schooled expression, but there’s that subtle, softer look in his eyes.

“You’re always so troubled,” Till says in a low, rumbling murmur. Richard pauses, _really_ looks at him now. He suddenly feels exposed. Peeled open like an insect to be studied. He hates how vulnerable Till makes him feel. It makes him feel powerless, dominated in a very strange way. A peculiar way that he feels conflicted about. Till confuses him. Till is an enigma.

Richard opens his mouth, closes it. He’s not sure how to respond. He just looks at him. He looks into his beautiful green eyes. Glances across the scars dotting his cheeks. Sweeps his gaze over his strong nose, his full lips with those damn perfect curves and dips. The towering, intimidating spikes of his mohawk that make him look sexy. The haunting handsomeness of him momentarily stuns Richard. Before he has seen it, his charm, but now, it has Richard realizing he doesn’t need one certain man. He can have this one.

 

* * *

 

**December, 1998**

 

The bass of the music playing from the interior of the club seeps out through the walls to greet Richard’s ears, from where he stands at the back exit, a cigarette lit and burning between his manicured fingers. The cars rushing by earn his stare. Considering the late hour on a Wednesday, the strip club isn’t as packed as it usually is. That leaves Richard alone in the parking lot, leaning against the back wall with one hand in the pocket of his slacks.

Glancing at his phone, Richard takes notice of the hour: 21:43. The others have left to go home by now, maybe twenty minutes ago. It had been a longer work day, today. Trouble went down at one of the family’s locations, trouble which garnered the attention of paramedics and cops. They had gone to clean up the mess. Now, Till is burdened with the trouble of making phone calls. Richard had stayed behind to wait for him, but now as he stands here, he’s beginning to suspect it’ll be another hour or two. And he’s not patient enough for that.

He angles his hand back to put his cigarette out on the wall of the building. Then he tucks it into his pack before shoving open the back door and reentering the office. There, he sees Till seated at his desk, cradling a phone in his hand, the other wielding a pen as he scribbles something down on a notepad. Adjusting the cuffs of his suit, Richard lazily approaches him, earning a glance over a shoulder from a vibrant green eye. A _tired_ green eye.

Till nods in greeting and turns back to the notepad. With a slight smirk on his face, Richard gets comfortable by taking a seat on the edge of Till’s desk, crossing his arms. He peers past his arm to read his notes. Mostly phone numbers, addresses, names.

“That’s irrelevant,” Till speaks up then, peering over at Richard with a furrowed brow. Richard arches a brow himself, smirking still. Till continues, searching Richard’s face, “That job was done a week ago, with a different group of men.”

A pause, and then Till sets the pen down and rubs at his brow.

“Then why bring it up? We’re talking about the _gambling._ Not the robbery. Both bring in different amounts of money.”

Richard lifts a hand to inspect his painted nails—a couple are chipped. He should redo them soon. Till shakes his head, seemingly irritated.

“Fine.”

Then suddenly, he smacks the phone down on the hook, ending the call abruptly. Richard smiles thinly at him, intrigued. Till reclines back into the seat, letting out a breath as he runs his broad hands down over his face.

“Seems like fun,” Richard comments, earning a tired glance from heavy green eyes. Till says nothing, just looks him up and down. Richard clears his throat and moves to straighten from the desk. He reaches out to squeeze Till’s shoulder.

“But it’s time for a break, huh?” he suggests insistently, patting Till on the back. Till grunts.

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“Let’s move to the couch. If you want, I’ll fix you some whiskey.”

Till silently agrees by nodding and standing tiredly. Richard passes him his cane, which Till takes and places upon the floor. Richard squeezes his bicep, firmly, and then steps towards the fridge on the other end of the office. Meanwhile, Till makes his way to the sectional, cane and brace clicking with each step. Richard withdraws a glass and the half-empty bottle of whiskey from the cabinet. He brings both with him to the sectional, his gaze trained on the other man who all but collapses onto the couch. He props his cane against the coffee table.

“A glass of honey whiskey for the finest gentleman in this establishment,” Richard wryly says as he pours the golden liquid into the drinking glass. Till huffs a slight laugh. It has Richard peeking up at him with a sly smirk. Till meets his gaze—Richard searches in his vibrant emerald eyes before averting his stare to the bottle in his hands. He sets the bottle down, screws the cap back on. He rounds the coffee table to take a seat beside the other man, settling with a deep exhale.

“Why are you here?” Till asks lowly, reaching for the glass. Richard props his elbow against the backrest of the couch, leaning his weight into it. He smiles thinly, watching through lidded eyes as Till throws the whiskey back like it was a shot—it certainly wasn’t, which amuses Richard. He knows Till prefers having a quarter of a whiskey bottle to get to sleep every night.

“I wanted to see you,” Richard answers honestly, earning a subtly surprised glance from the other man. Till searches his face, brow furrowed slightly. Richard admires his good-looking features: his striking eyes, his full lips, his strong nose, his sharp cheekbones, the stubble decorating his jaw, the spot of facial hair under his bottom lip. He’s a lovely mixture of handsome and hot and frightening—just Richard’s type.

“That’s a surprise, coming from you,” Till remarks, watching him with skepticism. He then turns away to refill his glass. Richard hums lowly. He crosses his legs and rests his manicured hand atop his thigh, taps his thumb against the sleek fabric of his slacks. Tries to ignore the racing of his heart, the way his stomach is in a knot. This could either go very poorly, or it will be very rewarding. He wants this to happen. He wants to be with someone who doesn’t make him feel rotten from inside out. He wants to be with someone who he trusts.

“What could you want from me?” Till asks, peering back at him as he brings the drinking glass to his lips. He savors it more than the first; takes only a drink while getting settled against the couch again. Sits with his knees placed apart, empty hand propping lazily against his inner thigh. Richard stares at his open lap.

It wasn’t framed as an accusatory question—meant that he knew Richard didn’t want his presence for the sake of just _chatting._ Friendship isn’t Richard’s thing.

“Your company,” Richard begins, lowly. Warmth seeps up into his cheeks. Shit—he’s usually smoother than this. It’s just different, flirting with your boss. Richard’s hand lifts, reaches out slowly, subtly. He rests just the tips of his fingers against his thigh, through the fabric of his suit pants. Face hard and unreadable, Till searches in Richard’s eyes, finds intent in them.

“You want to start something,” Till assumes, voice deepened and quieted. Richard smiles, thinly. He doesn’t look away from Till’s searching eyes. He continues holding the eye contact, deepens it by leaning in closer to the other man with a groan of leather. He tilts his head slightly, eyes becoming mischievous and daring, remaining locked on his superior’s.

“Do you?” he counters in a low, smooth voice reserved only for the people whom he wants to fuck the brains out of. Till’s vaguely confused expression shifts to something more reserved—contemplative. He searches Richard’s inviting, smirking face. Then, he reaches down to grasp the hand touching his thigh. Leaning in, Till brings it to his face to press a firm kiss to his fingers, staring deeply into his widened eyes.

“I’m intrigued,” Till answers, voice rumbling like thunder.

“Good,” Richard murmurs, letting out a relieved breath. Anticipation swells in his belly, replacing the uncertainty.

Till keeps that firm hold on his hand as he reaches out to take his whiskey glass in grasp again. He doesn’t look at Richard while he downs the remainder. Once consumed, he sets the glass down with a firm tap against the wood of the coffee table, a sound of finality.

“Where did you want this to go?” he asks, training his gaze on Richard’s. Richard unwaveringly meets his eyes as he answers calmly, saying with a smirk curling at the corner of his lips, “I want you to pin me to the couch and fuck me. That’s where I want this to go.”

For a moment, his boss just sizes him up, looks him up and down, searches in his excited green eyes. His rugged face is stoic, bearing no emotion as he scrutinizes his subordinate. Richard’s heart is already racing, his fingers clenched tight around Till’s. Releasing his hand, Till then reaches out to roughly grasp his tie in a fist, _tugs_ him closer—Richard gasps, hands flying out against Till’s thighs to balance himself. He looks into Till’s piercing eyes with shock, his mouth falling open, cheeks darkening with a flustered heat.

“Then you better get me hard, like a good little whore,” Till murmurs deeply, looking down at him with an intensity on his scarred face. Richard’s entire body bursts with a heat, aroused sparks tingling underneath his skin, settling most prominently in his gut. He looks at Till with surprise, alarmed that he caught on so quickly to what he wants.

“Yes, sir,” Richard whispers, fingers of his functional hand squeezing around Till’s thigh. Till holds him like this, suspended close to him by the firm hold of his tie, staring intently into his eyes, before he roughly shoves him off the sectional and onto the floor—Richard hadn’t anticipated it and finds no balance. He collapses onto the hardwood floor with a thud, catching himself on a hand, barely. His stomach is twisting around with a mixture of anticipation, arousal, and a tinge of fear. He feels restless, excited, as he rights himself; he gets on his hands and knees, crawls across the floor to reach Till’s knees, his sleek dress shoes scuffing against the hardwood panels, tie hanging from his throat. He looks up at him past his brow, his mouth fallen open, cheeks red, eyes heated. Paul is the farthest thing from his mind right now.

Till lounges casually, knees placed apart, boots sturdy on the floor, arm strung across the back of the couch, his head tilted, mohawk standing tall, piercing green eyes narrowed down at him. All he needs is a lit cigar. Richard’s heart is pounding. He reaches out to run his gloved and manicured hand up along the smooth fabric of Till’s slacks, for once uncertain of himself.

Silently, Till watches. He’s unmoving as Richard’s hands rise over the swell of his knees, traverse up along his muscular thighs (one gliding over the shell of his leg brace), fingers tight and squeezing as they move. Richard keeps their gazes locked, up until he has to watch himself undo Till’s belt and slacks—it takes a little more focus considering he has use of only one hand.

Shifting closer on his knees between Till’s, Richard reaches in with his hand to begin rubbing at his soft cock through the fabric of his briefs, his eyes panning up to meet Till’s again.

“Can you kiss me?” Richard asks, searching his stoic face. Till’s hard expression softens, just slightly. Richard notices, and it has a subtle smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Till nods. He reaches out, sweeps his tie into his hand again, pulls him up. Richard plants his gloved hand on the couch between Till’s thighs, uses the leverage to raise up. He looks up at Till with lidded eyes, his lips falling open with desire. Till watches him silently, his face unreadable, before he leans in and angles his head. Richard closes his eyes. He continues touching him through his briefs with a slow, firm rubbing and groping of his hand.

Till’s lips are full, and noticeably soft. Richard lets him lead it; Till kisses him gently, slowly. Purses of his mouth that Richard reciprocates, their lips overlapping together in a rather tame kiss. The sound of their kissing is loud in the silence of the office. Richard finds he greatly enjoys doing this with him. It’s intimate. The way Till kisses him is gentle, and warm. Oddly, it makes him feel content. He anticipated ugly, dirty kissing that makes him feel like an animal. This is hardly an unappreciated outcome, though. Unlike the man himself, the way he kisses is almost unbearably tender. Richard likes it.

Their lips move together slowly, sliding and pressing and pushing back and forth, until Richard peeks his tongue out to taste his lips, sweeps it under his bottom lip to feel the rough hair underneath it. Till lets him slide his curious tongue into his mouth, between his bottom teeth and inner lip. Richard tastes whiskey and cigarettes. It’s sexy. He loves how he tastes. Their panting melds together, shared between them intimately. Richard is already hard in his pants. He grunts when Till catches his bottom lip between his teeth, lets it slowly slide out from between them. Then he pulls back to search Richard’s flushed face—Richard opens his eyes to look up into his. Till’s eyes are intense with fire, pupils blown wide.

“Damn,” Richard murmurs thickly, without quite meaning to. He licks his lips. Till smiles thinly down at him, eyes becoming lidded. Richard shifts closer on his knees, looks up at his superior as if he were a saint and he, himself, a worshipper.

“You need to kiss me more often,” he breathes, swept away by how good that was. Till grins slightly, exposing a sliver of teeth. And now Richard is blind-sided by that smile—it’s such a rare sight. He stares, until Till curls one big hand around the back of his head, fingers clutching black spikes of hair, and says gruffly, “Your mouth belongs somewhere else, for now.”

“Fuck yeah, it does,” Richard agrees breathlessly, then drops his gaze to Till’s groin. He hooks his fingers into the waistbands of his slacks and briefs—Till raises his hips just enough for him to slip them down and under his ass. Meanwhile, Till removes his black suit coat, exposing the crisp sleeves of his white button-up—as well as his muscles, prominent through the thin fabric. He unravels his tie, draping it over his blazer, and then begins unbuttoning his shirt.

Richard swallows hard, staring. He regathers his composure to continue wiggling his pants and briefs down—but then he pauses. Till’s leg brace is a little in the way. Till realizes, clicks his tongue, leaves his shirt half-buttoned to begin unraveling the straps to his leg brace. Richard sits back on his calves, waits patiently with a furrowing brow. Is it rude to watch or—?

Doesn’t matter. Till gets it undone and slipped off his knee within a minute. Richard wonders why he even wears it. Is it just for stability? How functional is his knee? He seems to walk around just fine, and even without his cane sometimes. Maybe it’s a pain thing? Now that he thinks about it, he’s never seen Till run. Can he? Richard’s wondering is interrupted when Till resumes unbuttoning his shirt. Richard scoots closer and reaches up to grab onto his pants to finish pulling them off.

His gaze drops to admire his muscular, hairy thighs—he takes notice of the ragged, gnarly scar encompassing his knee, spreading upwards like broken glass into his lower thigh. Gaze wandering, he soaks up the visual of his revealed skin, the thicker, darker hair that decorates his abs, which builds into an unruly bush, surrounding his impressive cock. Richard lets out a shuddering breath.

“You have an amazing body, holy shit,” he says, reaching out. Till managed to get his shirt undone and half-way down his arms when Richard begins roaming his bare hand up over his hairy belly, to his chest. He squeezes one of his muscular pecs in his fingers, lets his hand slide back down to feel over his abs again, Till’s body hair tickling his skin along the descent. Till doesn’t say anything, though there’s slight amusement in his eyes.

Richard eats up the sight of his nude body as he curls his manicured fingers around the base of his heavy cock—it’s just barely interested. Just stiff enough for Richard to angle it up without it being awkward. He ducks his head in to taste at the head of his cock with a drift of his tongue—that earns a sharp breath from Till. Richard hums. He smells thick and heavy with musk, tastes like sweat. It turns him on.

Eagerly, Richard curls in closer to him and takes the head into his mouth, sucks tightly with hollowed cheeks. A big, warm hand curls around the back of his neck, fingers sliding underneath the collars of his suit coat and button-up to touch at skin. Humming, Richard leans in further, takes the entirety of his stiffening length into his mouth—easily, considering he’s not at full size at the moment. He sucks firmly while bringing his hand down to cup and squeeze his balls. Till rumbles from above, continues stroking at the back of his neck, up over his gelled locks, and then down again.

Richard feels it when blood rushes into his cock, stiffening in his mouth—the sensation has Richard’s dick throbbing in his pants. He furrows his brow, choking slightly as his cock thickens in his mouth. He’s big—Richard opens his mouth wider to accommodate it. He withdraws slightly to a more manageable degree. He begins to move his head, a slow, deep back and forth, taking his superior’s cock into his mouth again and again. The wet noises of him doing so fills the room, produced by his tight suction and plentiful spit. Till groans. Richard surges with satisfaction, evoking a moan from him.

Richard pulls off slowly, sucking firmly as he does, Till’s cock slipping from his mouth with a vulgar slurping sound. He looks up at him with a heated face and a coy grin as he grips his slick cock in a fist and begins stroking at him, saying cheekily with teasing eyes, “You hard enough yet, big guy?”

He may be a little impatient to get fucked into the sectional. Till withdraws his touch from his neck, fingers roaming through his gelled hair, his green eyes lidded and trained down on him. Richard maintains eye contact as he leans in to lick across the head of his cock with teasing swipes of his tongue. Till’s jaw clenches. Richard angles his head, continues looking into his heated eyes as he licks at his balls, curls his tongue around them as much as he is able to.

Till grunts, clutches a fistful of his black hair—keeping his head between his thighs. Richard lets out a shaky exhale, his body trembling. He’s already so unbelievably turned on, being grabbed and ordered around like this. Richard leans back in, takes his hard cock into his mouth again. He begins to suck him off with bobs of his head, eyes closed and brow knit, cheeks sucked in, lips wet and red around his shaft. Till’s hard grasp in his hair lingers, pulls his hair occasionally, unintentionally, as Richard moves his head.

Once breathless, Richard withdraws again, looks up at him with shiny, used lips and eagerness in his green eyes.

“You have lube somewhere in here, don’t you?” he asks, roaming his hand up over Till’s muscular thigh. Till nods, glances towards his desk.

“It’s in the right drawer.”

“Haha. I knew you screwed the dancers.”

“Sometimes.”

Rising up onto his feet again, Richard grins broadly at Till. Abruptly, Till reaches out and clutches a fistful of his tie before he could stand entirely—Richard stumbles forward, taken off-guard by the sudden pull. He plants his hands on the backrest of the couch for stability, looks at Till, so close now, with wide eyes. Till searches his face and then gently tugs him closer, close enough for him to crane his neck and kiss him. Richard hums, rolls his eyes shut. The dominating forcefulness is hot and turns him on.

Their lips move and roll together, overlapping and mashing, until Richard is panting and Till is grunting. Only when Till gets his fill does he push him away, gesture to the desk with a tilt of his head. Richard doesn’t waste time; he makes for Till’s desk, digs around in the right drawer until he finds the tube of lubricant poorly hidden under some paper. It’s not like it would matter if it was found.

“Undress,” Till commands as soon as Richard rejoins him at the sectional. He reaches out to grab the lube from him. Richard bites his lip, nods. With one hand, he loosens his tie, pulls it off over his head—it’s a bitch trying to tie a tie with one functional hand, so he just slips the same tie on every day and tightens it. Makes it easy. He tosses it onto the couch, atop Till’s clothing, and then toes off his sleek dress shoes. He lifts one foot at a time to peel off his black socks, then he shrugs off his suit coat.

Meanwhile, Till is leaning forward with interest, studying him, observing him and how he undresses. Not purely out of sexual curiosity, but rather, he’s been intrigued by Richard’s new-found difficulties with his handicap. How long does it take him to dress up completely? Does he have a girlfriend, perhaps she helps? What is the most frustrating part to deal with? How has his routine changed, ever since Christoph stripped his ability from him? Curiosities Till won’t ask.

Richard is soon left only in his black briefs, but even then, he doesn’t hesitate to ease it down his thighs, to drop them at his feet. He steps out of them, closer to Till. His cock is flushed a deep red, standing tall from his body, eager for stimulation.

“Your turn,” Richard says, unashamed in his nudity as he strips off the final piece of his outfit—the leather glove, exposing his heavily scarred hand. Till silently admires his flawless body—the firmness of his chest and arms, the apparent softness to his sides and hips, the light belly hair that looks quite good on him. He then nods, rises from the sectional. Richard watches now, simply smiling while crossing his arms. Till leans over to pull off his laced dress shoes, sets them aside, before stepping out of his slacks and underwear entirely. After peeling off his socks, he then takes a seat again and beckons Richard forward with a curl of two fingers, his eyes darker now.

All too eagerly, Richard smoothly takes a seat on his thighs, grinning coyly with his hands curling around the back of Till’s neck. He leans in to kiss him firmly over the stubbled cheek, and then down over his strong jaw. Till tilts his head to allow it. Meanwhile, he pops open the lube, squeezes some out into his hand. He rubs the slick substance over his fingers, firmly hooks his muscular arm around Richard’s side, sweeps his wet fingers down between his asscheeks.

Richard lets out a rushed exhale when Till immediately pushes one into him. He mouths sloppily at Till’s neck, tastes sweat and smells his faded cologne. He clings closely to him, skin against skin—peeking between their bodies, Richard notices Till’s erection resting stiffly against his thigh. Richard angles his hips and shifts a little closer, if only to reach down and cup their hard cocks together. He watches through lidded eyes as he began to stroke at them both—Till remains silent as he moves his finger inside of the other man.

Easing in another amongst the first has Richard humming with enthusiasm. He curls closer to Till, angles his head to nip at his jaw, bites his earlobe between his teeth, a smirk on his lips. Till pumps his fingers into him, his other hand roaming up across the soft skin of Richard’s back, over flexing muscle. Richard begins to rock his hips, back into Till’s hand, forward into his grip around their cocks. It has his length grinding slow and long against Till’s—it’s an interesting feeling, a good one. He lets out a soft exhale of a moan through agape lips, his face pressed to Till’s neck, eyes closed and brow slightly furrowed.

Curling a third finger into him has Richard grunting. His fingers are big. They fill him completely. Richard bites his lip between his teeth, hums lowly with pleasure. He continues rolling his hips back and forth, grinding into his thick cock, back into his hand. He feels the slickness of Till’s pre-cum on his fingers. That has him pausing, sweeping a thumb across the slit of his cock, enjoying the sensation of the secretion rolling under his thumb. Till makes a slight huffing noise, tightens his muscular arm around him.

“Alright,” Richard breathes, before he begins kissing his way from Till’s jaw to his lips. Till immediately turns his head to accommodate it. He mindlessly crushes his full lips against Richard’s, the exhales through his nose hard and rushed against Richard’s skin. They kiss heavily, passionately, lustfully, their tongues meeting and their saliva blending together, until they taste like each other, until their panting exhales combine within the shared space. Till bites his bottom lip between his teeth, sweeps his tongue into his mouth, tastes his saliva, runs across the ridges of his teeth. Till bites again, harder, lets his lip slide out from between his teeth.

“Shit,” Richard murmurs against his chin when they separate, his voice breathless and ragged. He rakes his fingernails up across Till’s broad shoulder blade, curls his arm possessively around his shoulders. He leans in to him closely, turns his head to lay his lips against his ear, saying in a growl, “I want you to fuck me now. Pin me to the couch. I want it to hurt, T.”

“Get on your hands and knees then,” Till murmurs, “Show me that you want it. I’m not convinced.”

“Yes, sir,” Richard whispers, nosing at his ear. Till runs his broad hand around Richard’s back, fingers pressing in firmly to pliable flesh. Richard moves off of him, presents himself across the length of the sectional with his elbows planted upon the leather, one knee keeping himself raised, one foot meeting the cool hardwood of the floor. He watches Till over his shoulder, eyes wide and wild with lust. Till grabs the lube, watches him closely as he opens it and upturns it to squeeze a line down between Richard’s asscheeks.

Excitement crawls through Richard’s entire body. He rocks back, moving his body restlessly, impatiently, watching Till with a hungry gaze. Till shifts closer with a groan of the leather, reaches out to grab a painfully hard handful of his ass. He sweeps the lube up between his asscheeks to push it into him with two fingers—Richard moans. He pushes back into it, grits out between clenched teeth, “Come on, T! You’ve been thorough enough!”

Till withdrawing his hand to spank it hard across his ass has Richard lurching forward and grunting. He looks at Till with alarmed eyes and an open mouth, his cheeks a ruddy red. Till stares darkly into his eyes as he grabs a handful of his ass, nails digging in—then he lets go to whip his palm against his asscheek again. Richard gasps, his face contorting with both pain and pleasure. He clutches handfuls of the cushion, his legs already shaking.

“Fuck me,” Richard moans, ducking his head to press his forehead into the leather of the sectional, rocking his body back against the fingers touching at his slick hole. Till begins to rub his fingers firmly against him there, circling them against him and evoking a deep, aroused groan from the younger man. The sensation of his rough fingers grinding against his finger-fucked hole is hot, sending a burst of heat into his belly. His cock aches, hanging down from between his clenching thighs. Richard pants heavily, skin already heating up incredibly so, birthing beads of sweat.

“Your cunt wants me so badly,” Till says lowly, stating it so calmly as if it wasn’t the filthiest thing he’s ever said to the man. Richard shudders. He nods, twists his hips back into Till’s touch, murmuring almost pathetically, “Yes, T, please, come on. I want you to claim me like your bitch. Please.”

Till spanks his fingers against his asshole, earning another surprised jerk from Richard and a tight gasp, and then he’s rising with a shift of the couch and a creaking of leather. He kneels behind Richard, runs one hand up over the length of his spine, grabs the back of his neck, shoves his face into the cushion. Richard moans, wholeheartedly encouraging it. He can barely breathe as Till shifts closer to his bent over body, his broad hips meeting Richard’s ass. Richard feels his stiff cock, thick and hot, settle between his asscheeks.

“Tap my arm if it becomes too much,” Till murmurs, voice thick and deep with lust. Richard nods, confident that won’t be necessary. He feels Till shift behind him, his shaft withdrawing from against his ass. Then the slick head of his cock is rubbing up against his taint before pressing into his eager hole. Richard groans into the couch, nails digging into the leather. Till begins to push in, firmly, deeply, without hesitance. He’s far from small—Richard clenches his toes, legs tensing, hand becoming white-knuckled.

It hurts. Richard loves it. He moans into the leather and spreads his thighs further apart, as much as he can. Till snaps his hips forward, driving the remainder of his shaft into him, his pelvis meeting Richard’s ass. Richard groans. Till begins to thrust without wait. He fucks him with hard snaps of his hips, jerking both of them forward into the couch. Richard cries out, face twisting from where it’s kept pinned against the sectional.

“Fuck!” he shouts, “Fuck me, T! Oh, fuck!”

Till grunts from behind him, panting and swearing under his breath. Richard is delirious, moaning openly and going limp against the sectional as he remains kneeling there, taking the force of Till’s brutish thrusting. Till keeps him pinned into the couch, leaning over him, sweaty skin pressed to sweaty skin. Richard can hardly breathe. He’s beginning to feel light-headed from the lack of sufficient air. He gasps against the couch, eyes rolling and spit dripping from his agape lips.

“Good boy,” Till murmurs roughly from behind him, slowing his rough fucking to something slow and deep. A gradual withdraw, a firm snap of his hips in. A continuous back and forth that has Richard moaning lowly. He feels like he’s about to pass out, gasping for air. He reaches back and touches Till’s arm.

Till withdraws his grasp from the back of his neck, leans forward over Richard’s curled body to plant his hand atop the couch instead. Richard pants heavily, turns his head to rest his cheek against the saliva-wet leather, eyes closed and mouth open. Till watches him silently, his own expression stony save for the red tint to his cheeks and heaving chest, derived from his arousal and the vigorous movement.

As Till begins to pick up the pace again, he lifts his hand from the sectional to clutch a fistful of Richard’s hair. He plants his other hand against the center of his shoulder blades, keeps him pinned that way as he begins to fuck him with hard bucks of his hips, their bodies moving together again. Richard moans, his face falling lax with pleasure. Till pulls his hair, twists his wrist to tug at the black locks—Richard whines, squeezing his eyes shut. He doesn’t protest. Till continues pounding into him with almost violent thrusts of his powerful hips, evoking another series of shouts from the other man.

“Oh, fuck yes!” Richard gasps, one hand sliding down over the sweaty leather to reach under their bodies, in order to grasp his cock. It’s only been dripping pre-cum onto the couch throughout this. He begins tugging at it while Till fucks him, crying out amongst the noise of their meeting bodies, “Fuck me, T! Your cock is so fucking big! I—Oh, God!”

At this point he’s yelling, delirious with pleasure, and Till doesn’t find it sexy. He tightens his hold in his hair, to the point it must surely hurt. Richard grimaces, chokes slightly, and then moans and breathes, “Fuck me. Fill me with your fucking cum, T.”

He licks his lips, angles his upper half so he can look back into Till’s intense green eyes as he says hoarsely, “I want to feel your cum drip out of me. Make me your fucking bitch.”

“You’re shameless,” Till murmurs breathlessly with unamused eyes, slowing the jarring snaps of his hips again—he rocks against him with a slower, firmer tempo. His thighs burn, his chest heaving, skin dripping with sweat. Richard’s eyes roll shut, his mouth falling open. He looks blissful, his fingers curling into the leather of the couch again.

“You _are_ my bitch,” Till adds, spitting the words, tugs at his hair for good measure, earning a sharp gasp from the man underneath him. Richard grunts, nods against the grasp in his locks.

“Yes, yes,” he slurs, “I’m just here for you to fuck, T. I’ll let you fuck me whenever you want. Bend me over whatever fucking surface you want, at any time.”

Till curls his lip.

“You slut,” he murmurs lowly. Richard whines. Till lets his hair go, curls that hand around the back of his neck to keep him pinned. His knee is beginning to hurt. They need to change positions.

“I want you to remain kneeling, and lean over the back of the couch,” he growls, “No complaints.”

“Yes, sir,” Richard says thickly, muffled slightly now that his cheek is pressed to the leather again. Till gets up off of him to move aside. Richard immediately rises up, turns to face the backrest of the couch, plants his hands upon it, keeps his knees placed far apart. He turns to look back at Till—Till notices the spit smeared on his face, his skin flushed a deep red, his pupils blown wide. He looks like a mess.

“Like this,” Till grunts, reaching out to plant a hand on his back. He shoves him forward, over the backrest of the couch. Richard ends up draped across it, hands scrabbling against the back of the couch, searching for stability. Till makes sure he doesn’t fall as he gets up behind him. He’s a little wary they might topple the entire goddamn sectional, but he’ll be careful.

Gripping his slick shaft, he then angles his hips, eyes downcast to watch himself rub the thick head of his cock against his slick hole. Without warning, he shoves back into Richard, evoking a sharp grunt from the other man. Till grabs onto his hip, his other hand roaming up over his curled back, across the roll of his spine, to hook around his shoulder, keeping him rooted. Richard places his hands flat against the smooth leather of the back of the couch, tries to keep himself steady as Till begins to snap his hips against him. Richard’s legs curl back against Till’s, toes clenched and thighs shaking.

“Fuck!” he cries, grimacing. Till focuses on keeping them balanced as he rocks against him, driving into him roughly and deeply. The sounds of their fucking is far from subtle—the cracking of their meeting skin fills the office easily, joined by the distant sound of pounding music emitting from the strip club’s dance room.

Richard reaches back to hook a hand around the backrest of the couch, the other sliding down across the leather slickened with the sweat of his palms. It hurts, how the backrest is digging into his midsection. Till is only crushing him further, leaning into him, but the feeling of desperation and helplessness only contributes to his enjoyment. He’s drooling onto the floor, his mouth agape and eyes clenched shut, his black locks wild from the previous tugging it withstood.

“T, oh, God!” he all but shouts, “I’m going to fucking come! Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop—f-fuck me, oh, God, fuck me—”

Till lifts his hand from Richard’s shoulder to clamp it around his mouth—effectively shutting him up. Richard moans against his palm, loudly. Panting, Till stills against him, buried in deeply with their lower halves connected. He lets Richard’s hip go to reach around and grip his angry, throbbing cock in a calloused hand. Richard’s body jerks underneath his own. He whimpers against his hand as Till begins to jerk him off with a tight fist. Richard moans and moans, muffled under Till’s palm. He sounds like he’s fucking dying.

As he begins to rock his hips against him, slowly and in long strokes, Till continues pulling almost roughly at his cock, until Richard’s entire body winds up underneath him, clenching and tensing and trembling. He makes a choked noise against Till’s hand, so rough and genuine with agony. He jerks and twitches under Till, his legs flexing and curling around Till’s calves. Till feels his shaft throb and pulsate in his grip. Then hot semen rushes down over his fingers, drips off his knuckles. Richard lets out a ragged, broken moan against his hand.

“Good boy. Come for me,” Till murmurs, “Look at how much you’re letting out.”

He continues pumping his hand on his twitching cock, feels an excessive amount of cum drip from his fingers. Richard is shaking uncontrollably underneath him. His body is clenching up tight around Till’s shaft. It feels good, but his own orgasm isn’t his concern right now. He watches the muscle flex and shift in Richard’s back as his body continues working through the paralyzing euphoria.

“Such a good little bitch,” Till growls, “I should tie you down and milk you until you shoot nothing but blanks. You would like that. You want me to run you dry and pull you taut, don’t you?”

Richard groans against his palm. Till doesn’t let up. He turns his wrist to begin tugging at his sensitive cock in a downwards pull. Richard’s shaking stops—replacing it is complete tension. His body is locking up, his legs tightening around Till’s. He begins to whimper and cry against his hand. Till continues stroking at his slick cock, using his cum as lubricant. His shaft has gone somewhat soft in his hand now.

Richard jerks a hand back to press it against Till’s arm. Till continues pumping his spent cock with his big fingers until Richard twists his head, breaking out of Till’s hand to cry, “Till! Too much! I can’t! Please!”

“Hold still,” Till insists, “I’m almost done.”

“Till,” Richard moans in agony, twisting his hips to the side with desperation. Till doesn’t move off of him. He begins to gently rock his hips against him as he continues tugging at his overstimulated cock. Richard jerks against the backrest of the couch, gasping sharply. His nails dig into Till’s arm. He’s grimacing, teeth grit and eyes squeezed shut, his face red.

“Please,” he moans, “Please!”

Till grasps the back of his neck with his free hand, keeping him pinned.

“If you really want me to stop,” he says lowly,” All you have to say is ‘stop’, R.”

Richard moans in agony. He goes silent for a moment, shifts his body restlessly, desperately under Till’s, his functional hand clawing at the back of the couch. Biting his lip, Richard represses a desperate groan that comes out muffled and pathetic. Till’s stroking doesn’t lessen. He continues pumping his hand over his spent, angry red cock while fucking him with deep rocks of his hips. Richard sobs.

Then he goes silent. He begins shaking uncontrollably underneath Till, his body twisting and flexing and moving restlessly. The slick sounds of Till pumping his hand over his sensitive, softened cock fills the room, mixing with Richard’s whimpering and ragged panting. It continues like this, until Till’s non-stop stroking has him tensing up and crying out loudly again. Till feels his sweaty body jerk underneath his, his insides clamping up tight around his cock. Till grunts. He had been on the edge himself, thus the slow fucking, but the sensation of him squeezing so damn tight around him has him shooting his load, premature to his plans.

He groans, though it is easily outdone by Richard’s agonized moaning and sobbing. Till feels weak spurts of cum roll over his fingers. His own body clenches up as the pleasure rushes over him, swallowing him whole like a wave. He thrusts shakily into Richard a few more times, drawing out the sensation with a clenched jaw, his hand continuing to clutch at his abused cock, until he lets out a ragged exhale and sags atop Richard. Richard whimpers weakly.

Till strokes three more times, slowly, at Richard’s tender, flaccid shaft, though Richard jerking and sharply whining has him relenting and releasing his hold. Till glances down to watch as he slowly pulls out of him. Richard moans, his voice hoarse and rough. He sees his cum immediately gush out. Richard gasps—Till sees him clench up.

Moving off of him, Till gently curls a muscular forearm around his chest and draws him back over the couch. Richard is nearly deadweight, unable to hold himself up. Till has to catch him in his arms—Richard curses, sags forward into him and curls up against his front. Till sits back on his calves, ignoring the pulsating ache in his knee in favor of cradling Richard.

Gazing down at him, Till is amazed to see him so utterly spent. Till wonders if he’s ever experimented with overstimulation like that before. If he’s ever had an orgasm like that. Till glances over to see the splattered mess of cum rolling down over the leather of the couch to pool in the crevice. Well, the cleaning crew can handle that tonight. They’re used to it.

Richard’s eyes flutter open to look at him with dazed awe.

He seems momentarily speechless. He lifts a hand to sluggishly run it down over his flushed face. Till is silent, watching him, panting himself as he regains his breath. Richard moves to sit up, with difficulty. Till helps him with a hand squeezing around his bicep, the other on his back.

“Is that what you wanted?” he asks. Richard huffs a laugh, peeks at Till tiredly with a smirk on his face. He nods. Then he leans over to kiss Till fleetingly on the lips—he pulls back before Till could reciprocate it. Richard searches in his eyes, smiling still, and then murmurs, “Absolutely. And that definitely won’t be the only time, either.”

He doesn’t want this to be a one-time occasion. Till has satisfied him so thoroughly; Richard wants a man that will ruin him, and rebuild him in the same night. He hasn’t felt this light in a while. He wants this to last. He wants Till to want this. Till seems to be contemplating it, searching Richard’s flushed face.

“If this were to become something more,” Till muses, “Then you’ll be subjected to what I prefer in sex as well.”

Richard grins like a shark, exposing teeth with wide, excited eyes.

“It would be my goddamn pleasure, T.”


	23. Lohnen Nicht Ohne Dich

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fate leads Christoph to where he is now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title translation: "They (the seconds) aren't worth it without you"
> 
> Faren isn't just a random name, he was the bassist and singer for Die Firma when Paul, Christoph, and Richard played for that band.
> 
> Warning for death, suicide, emotional and physical child abuse, underage sex, dubious consent, violence, alcohol/drug use, non-consensual drugging, graphic rape, a suicide attempt, and torture. A lot happens lmao (This isn't all that happens to Christoph, too, unfortunately, but I couldn't squeeze it all in unless I wanted this to be a 20k word chapter.)

**6; 1972**

 

The pictures are becoming worn with age. Faded in color, some torn, some wrinkled from poor treatment. They’re encased in a thick photo album with an equally thick floral cover. Boredom is a frequent visitor, so he often finds himself pulling it out of the bookcase, setting it on the carpeted floor of the tiny living room, sprawling out on his stomach to begin flipping through it. The pictures of Mommy when she’s young and smiling is his favorite. There’s some of grandma, too, before she passed away. There are only two pictures of grandpa smiling, a rarity that he’s awed by whenever he comes upon those photographs. There is none of Daddy, but Daddy never had much of a presence anyways. Mommy seemed angry whenever he asked about Daddy. Said that he was a good-for-nothing bastard, whatever that meant.

Christoph flipped through the pages slowly, languidly, taking his time savoring the precious moments of every one. Some of him as a tiny baby, but they are few. There’s one of Mommy he especially loves. She’s sprawled back across a mattress covered in blankets, her hair wild and a grin on her face. Mommy said grandma took that one, when Mommy was twenty.

“Christoph, time to go outside and play.”

Twisting around to look back towards the doorway, Christoph sees Mommy standing there, arms crossed. Her hair is unbrushed, her eyes heavy with those ever-present circles underneath them. Christoph feels sad, looking at her. She isn’t smiling at him.

“But, Mommy, it’s cold!” he complains, moves to sit up against the TV cabinet, folding his arms around his knees. She sighs, lifts a hand to rub at her face.

“Put on a coat and go play with your friends. Mommy needs to be alone for a while.”

Christoph stares at her, pouting. He knows she’s just going to have one of her friends over. One of those men he never trusts. A weak smile appears on her lips.

“I’ll go and buy you another coloring book, okay? I promise. Give me some time, Christoph.”

“Really?!” Christoph gasps, looks at her with shock and equal excitement. He climbs up onto his feet, runs over to her to cling to her legs. She rests a hand on his head—Christoph looks up at her past his wrist, beaming.

“Get me one with princesses this time!” he shouts, squeezing her legs tightly in his tiny arms. She continues smiling, albeit weakly, and it makes him happy. He likes it when she smiles.

“Alright, one with princesses,” she agrees. He grins, ecstatic, and then presses his cheek to her thigh as he cries, “I love you, Mommy!”

A moment passes before Mommy says softly, “That’s sweet, honey. Now, go on.”

She gently pries him off, grabs his coat, presses it into his arms, and then crouches to meet his height. She grabs his shoulders, searches in his wide blue eyes. Christoph is barely withholding his excited wiggling, looking at her with a smile.

“Listen to me, Christoph,” she says firmly, a hard look in her eyes. Christoph’s grin fades. He nods, clutching tiny fistfuls of the coat. She searches his boyish face for a moment, silent. Christoph waits patiently. She lets out a shuddering breath, then forces a slight smile.

“You will do greater things in your life. I don’t know when or how, but I know you’ll grow into a man a better mother would be proud of.”

Christoph pauses, looks at her with mild confusion. He just nods, unsure what she means. She leans in to press a quick kiss to his forehead—such a rare affectionate gesture that has his heart swelling. He beams up at her, touched. Her smile is more melancholic as she ruffles his hair and then grabs his coat to begin helping him into it.

 

Forty minutes later, Christoph lingers at the door to their decrepit apartment, fidgeting his hands together. Usually Mommy wants him to stay away longer, when this happens, but he’s just so bored. He doesn’t have friends, and the nearby library is closed due to the hour. He pouts at the door, turns to lean against it. It’s not as cold in this hallway, at least. It’s just scary, because there are men who have missing teeth and sunken eyes. Monsters with scarred skin and bad intentions. He’s had far too many experiences, being out here like this. One time, a bad man tried to grab him and take him away. He doesn’t want to face that again.

He’s scared. His heart is racing as he stands there, fearful blue eyes flicking back and forth down the hallway.

He turns to the door, reaches up to try the doorknob. It’s unlocked? He pushes the door open slowly, peeks in. The lights are on, but he doesn’t hear anything. He hesitantly paces in, shuts the door and makes sure to lock it before he turns back to the apartment. He curls his hands up against his chest, an anxious gesture of his, apprehensive of Mommy’s impatience.

He peeks into the living room, sees nothing and no one. After taking off his wet shoes and leaving his coat on the floor, he steps deeper into the apartment. He reasons that she’s probably in her bedroom. He’s thirsty, and the idea of having some of the leftover juice in the fridge is too tempting.

Turning into the kitchen, he rounds the counter and then stops, for he sees a vibrant red liquid on the cheap vinyl flooring. He follows the pooled red liquid with his gaze until he sees Mommy laying there. Her face is vacant, eyes open. Christoph realizes it’s blood. He knows you only see blood when bad things have happened. The fear comes back, like an ugly festering monster. He feels choked, like he can’t breathe. He opens his mouth, barely manages to voice a quietly spoken, “Mommy? What happened?”

He steps through her blood, approaches her fallen figure and then moves to kneel beside her. His pants are getting soaked, but he just wants to make sure she’s okay. He reaches out to cup her cheeks, looks down at her with tears simmering in his eyes. Her hair is matted to her neck and jaw with blood.

“Mommy?” Christoph tries again, his voice cracking. He shakes her, attempts to gain a response that doesn’t come. Her eyes are staring up at him, but he can tell she isn’t really seeing him.

What is he supposed to do? What is he supposed to do if Mommy is hurt, if she isn’t responding to him?

He begins to sob, fat tears rolling down over his cheeks as his vision blurs, distorting the image of his motionless mother. He leans forward to rest against her chest, clutching at her shirt and clinging to her helplessly as his sobs wrack his body. What is he supposed to do? Mommy would know what to do.

 

* * *

 

**13; 1979**

 

“Why are you like this? Do you want to make my life harder than it already is, dealing with you?”

His grandfather violently chucks the book he had in his hands at Christoph, which crashed with a sharp smack into the wall beside him. Christoph flinches, steps away, curls his shoulders in a little more, head ducking. He shrugs. Fear courses through him like a creature, grips at his lungs and at his voice.

“Give me a goddamn answer!” his grandfather roars, slapping his hands on the armrest of the recliner, “Do you not realize how that behavior could ruin your fucking life? Destroying a Stasi’s car? What the hell were you thinking? I don’t give a shit if your friends pressured you, or they _made_ you do it, or whatever excuse you throw in my face every time, but didn’t you think, _for one second_ , that that could affect me too? I don’t want those shitheads at my doorstep! I have to deal with your worthless ass because no one else will, don’t make me regret it anymore than I already am!”

For good measure, he grabs the remote from the coffee table, lunges up onto his feet to chuck it at Christoph—it hits Christoph on the shoulder, ricochets off into the kitchen with a clatter. Christoph grinds his teeth. The creature relieves its hold on his speech.

“You’re a miserable old fuck,” he seethes through bared teeth, looking up at him darkly past the wild locks of his mop-like hair, “You should have just dropped me into the lap of the system. I’m sure it would’ve been kinder than yours. Bastard.”

“Get the fuck out of my sight!” his grandfather yells, striding towards Christoph with a red face and enraged eyes, “How dare you say that kind of shit when I’ve been keeping you fed all this goddamn time! Get the fuck out, you ungrateful brat!”

He smacks Christoph, _hard,_ on the head, and Christoph stumbles into the counter of the kitchen. Silent, Christoph regains his footing and then shoves away from the counter, striding for the door. His grandfather screams obscenities at him as he goes, but he ignores it, focuses on the pounding of his heart, the roaring of fury in his blood. He kicks open the front door—the frame had already been broken before in similar fashion. He strides out, hands shoved deeply into the pocket of his hoodie, his head lowered and long curls keeping his face hidden.

 

* * *

 

**16; 1982**

 

Kept confined to a metal bin, the fire burns. It crackles and spits embers. The smoke escapes through the open, broken windows of the ramshackle building. Laughter and conversation fills the hall. Graffiti decorates the walls. Bottles of alcohol clutter the broken coffee table positioned to the left of the group. Christoph sits cross-legged, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, his head lowered. His heavy blue eyes are trained up on the sight of his friends. Everything is fuzzy, distorted, disorienting. He’s drunk. He and his friends found a stash of vodka underneath one of the loose floorboards in another abandoned building.

He feels vaguely sick, but not uncomfortably so. His thoughts are spinning, his vision swimming slightly. Even when sitting, it feels like he’s going to collapse. He remains as still as possible, attempting to regain his coherency as he watches his friends fuck around, laughing and screaming loudly. He’s unmoving, silent.

“You’re so cute, you know that, Christoph?” one of his friends slurs, suddenly crawling into his lap. Jolting with shock, Christoph looks up past his long, unruly bangs to see the oldest of the group getting comfortable by sitting atop his crossed legs, winding his own around Christoph’s waist, his hands sliding up through his wavy curls. A shiver shoots up Christoph’s back. It’s Faren—twenty-five. He has a blonde undercut, his jaw decorated with stubble. He has the most beautiful green eyes. Christoph finds him attractive, but he has never expressed as much.

“I love your lips,” Faren laughs, one hand emerging from unwashed curls to drag a thumb down over his bottom lip. Christoph freezes, looks up at him with alert blue eyes. Heat curls in his gut. He says nothing, just looks at him. Faren smiles at him, thinly, his eyes lidded. The others are laughing and yelling at Faren to leave him alone.

“I enjoy having lips,” Christoph remarks dryly, in a murmured slur, “I need them to eat and speak.”

“You know what else you can do with them?” Faren grins like a shark, eyes wide. He leans in, rakes his fingers through Christoph’s wild hair, says into his ear in a drunkenly slurred whisper, “You can kiss me. You can use them to suck me off.”

Christoph’s belly swims with arousal, again. He swallows hard. He looks at the other man with wide eyes when Faren pulls back to gauge his reaction. Faren grins. He reaches down to boldly grab Christoph’s wrist, pulls his hand out of his hoodie pocket to press it flatly to his groin. Christoph feels stiffness against his hand, through his jeans. Christoph’s mouth is suddenly very dry. He just stares at Faren, speechless. Faren grins at him, glances over his shoulder towards the others, “I think Christoph needs to lay down. He looks a little green under the gills.”

“Oh, just go already, Faren,” one of the girls laughs, “Don’t pretend you’re not going to fuck him once you’re in the other room.”

Flustered beyond words, Christoph says nothing. He hides underneath his curly hair, ducks his head. Faren snorts and remarks cheekily, saying, “I have no ulterior motives! Jeez, you’re so dirty-minded.”

With that hold on his wrist, Faren then moves off of his lap and begins to pull him up onto his feet. Christoph clumsily rises, his legs stumbling and hand shooting out to grab onto Faren’s shirt. Everything is spinning. He can’t.

“Aw, he’s so drunk,” one of the others calls out, “He can barely stand!”

Faren pulls his arm around his shoulders, his other hand tucking around his side and hoisting him up. Christoph grunts, finds his footing. Faren begins walking them towards the other room, where all the mattresses and blankets are.

Once inside the room, Faren helps him down onto the mattresses. Christoph collapses, sprawling out with his hair flipped up, his hoodie and shirt half-way up his stomach. He feels hands on the exposed skin, calloused fingers touching at pale skin dotted with birthmarks. Christoph weakly lifts his head, looks up at Faren with wide eyes. Faren smiles down at him, kneeling close to his side.

“You have soft skin,” Faren comments, spoken lowly. His hands roam up under his hoodie to stroke at his prominent ribcage and chest. Fingers find his nipples, rubs at them with firm thumbs. Christoph moans. He’s incredibly hard in his jeans.

“You like that?” Faren purrs, continues groping at his body. He caresses his sides, strokes his hands along his chest, squeezes his hips in his hands. Christoph is too shy to say or do anything. He just lays there, eyes lidded and fixed on Faren’s handsome face. Faren stops touching him, withdraws his hands from under his hoodie to begin working on the belt and zipper to his own jeans. Christoph watches silently, his face and body on fire, his stomach boiling with arousal. He’s never been with anyone before. He’s excited, and both scared, to see what Faren is about to show him.

Faren doesn’t hesitate to get his jeans down enough to pull his hard cock out of his underwear. Christoph stares. He’s smaller than Christoph is. Faren shifts closer on his knees, moves to kneel beside Christoph’s head. Christoph moves away, eyes widening, unsure of what’s happening. A big hand curls around the back of his head, fingers woven in his curls.

“It’s okay,” Faren says, slurred, earning a glance from shaky blue eyes, “You’ll make me feel good. Don’t you want me to feel good, Christoph? I can do something for you after. I promise.”

Christoph freezes. Uncertainty begins to build. He didn’t want this to be rushed. He’s hesitant, but unsure of what to say. He doesn’t want to let him down, but he wants to do this differently. He wants to _build up_ to this. But this is happening too fast, too quickly.

“I—” he begins softly, shyly. He hesitates, fingers curling into the blankets underneath them. Faren grunts with impatience, begins to touch himself right in front of Christoph’s face. Christoph licks his lips. Maybe it’s okay. Faren just wants to get off. Christoph doesn’t want to disappoint him. He just wants his friends to like him. Faren would be angry if he rejected him. And isn’t it normal for boys his age to have sex? Christoph doesn’t want to be different. He wants to fit in. He wants to be accepted.

So he just nods, looks up at him past his wavy bangs. Faren lets out a breath, grinning again. He shifts closer. Christoph glances down towards his hard cock, finding it a bizarre sight, having it in his face like this. He hesitates a second longer, before he leans in and shyly takes the head into his mouth. He’s never done this before, he’s not sure what to do. He tastes strong, almost salty. Christoph tries to repress his repulsion. He begins to move his mouth with uncertainty, with a lack of confidence. He feels ashamed.

It doesn’t take long. Faren pulls out and comes across his cheek with a growl of his name. Christoph isn’t sure what he even did, but it seemed to work well enough. He flops back onto the bed, disoriented and dizzy. His vision spins when he looks up at the ceiling. Raising a hand, Christoph weakly wipes the cum off his face.

That wasn’t fun. He isn’t sure how to take it.

Faren tucks his dick back into his jeans, shifts closer towards Christoph’s lower half. He begins to rub at his belly and sides again with both hands, earning a weak glance from hooded blue eyes. He gropes at his hips, then gets his jeans undone. Christoph weakly gets up on an elbow, watches drunkenly as Faren yanks his jeans down enough for his erection to spring up and rest against his belly.

“Wow,” Faren says, grips it in a hand. Christoph tenses up, sucks in a breath. He stares with wide eyes as Faren begins to pull at his flushed cock with a breathless laugh.

“You’re so damn perfect. Look at your cock! Every inch of you is pretty!”

Christoph feels humiliated, rather than flattered. He remains silent. But then Faren leans in to lick at the head, tongue sweeping into his foreskin. Christoph gasps, mouth falling open. That makes it _much_ better.

 

* * *

 

**16; 1982**

 

“Hey, do you think we could do what you did with Faren?” one of his other friends asks a week later, having cornered Christoph at one of their weekly parties, catching him outside when he’s taking a piss. The moon and stars hang over them, joined by the darkness of the night and the chill of the winter evening. Christoph stares at him past his curly bangs, his exhales visible in the air. Christoph silently tucks his dick back into his pants, zips up his jeans.

“What do you mean?” he asks quietly, crossing his arms. His friend looks nervous, shrugs as he glances back towards the entrance of the dilapidated building.

“Faren said you were good. We could suck each other off like you did with Faren,” he says, voice lowered. Christoph stands there motionlessly, silently. He stares at the other man—he doesn’t even remember his name, or his age. He has shortly cropped hair and a plain face. Not even attractive. And Christoph isn’t drunk.

“I mean, I don’t know,” Christoph murmurs, anxiety gripping his insides. He feels sick, suddenly. His hands clutch tightly at his biceps, his head lowering as a sign of submissiveness, whether he’s aware of it or not. The other man takes two steps closer. Christoph tenses up, remains silent.

“Come on, it won’t be weird or anything,” his ‘friend’ says, reaching out for him to touch his elbow, “It’ll be fun. Right here is fine. It’ll be quick."

Christoph lets out a long exhale, stares down at his beat-up shoes. He doesn’t want to disappoint his friends. Is doing this normal? Is doing this for his friends something that’s to be expected? If it is, what happens if he rejects him? He hesitates for a moment, peeks up at him past his wavy locks. He doesn’t even know his name. Does it matter? If he denied him, Christoph could be possibly kicked out of the group, and then he would truly have no one. He doesn’t want to be alone. Not again.

“Okay,” he says quietly. He can’t breathe past his anxiety. The other man grins, and then reaches down to begin undoing his pants. Christoph steps closer, frowning deeply. Heat rises into his face when he moves to kneel, removing his hands from the pocket of his hoodie. A hand slides into his haphazard mop of hair, fingers twisting in soft curls to a painful degree. Christoph feels ashamed.

 

* * *

 

**17; 1983**

 

Punk music blares loudly throughout the area, a barrage of noise that could hardly be called music. People are dancing wildly in the field, others lounging back on the grass, some standing around and talking. The bleachers are completely occupied, swarmed by young people. Christoph walks through the swarm of punks, trying to find one man. His head is lowered, his hair concealing his face as always. He peeks up to scan the crowd occasionally as he passes people, until he spots him leaning against the back of one of the bleachers, talking with someone else that Christoph doesn’t recognize.

When Christoph approaches, Faren glances up and manages a slight smile. His hair is longer now, tied back in a blonde braid. Christoph feels hot under the collar, meeting his gaze. He still has conflicted feelings over him. They’ve fucked around many times ever since the first (though nothing beyond oral), and even if Faren has made things harder on Christoph, Christoph stills finds himself drawn to him.

“This has to stop,” Christoph murmurs, now face to face with him, standing close enough he can smell Faren’s cologne. Faren tilts his head, looks at him with amusement. The other man standing with them is sizing Christoph up. Doesn’t seem to care that they need privacy. Faren slides his hands into the pockets of his leather coat, shrugs.

“What do you mean, Chrissy?”

 _Ugh._ Christoph’s jaw clenches at the nickname. He only calls him that when he’s either patronizing him, or mocking him. His hands clench into fists in the pocket of his hoodie.

“Can you tell your friend here to fuck off for one goddamn second?” Christoph growls, unable to keep a lid on his anger. Faren blinks, looks at him with surprise. He seems vaguely impressed. He huffs a laugh, turns to his friend who is now looking at Christoph with a curled lip. Christoph stares back at him blankly, eyes daring and dark. Faren lifts a hand from his pocket, says calmly, “Get out of here. Give us five minutes.”

The punk-looking man rolls his eyes, but obliges. He steps away and out of sight, disappearing into the crowd of people.

“What is it, babe?” Faren says, voice deceivingly gentle now, reaching out to touch him on the bicep. Christoph _barely_ withholds the urge to smack him away. He glares darkly at Faren. His heart is pounding, veins seemingly tightening with his anxiety. He tries not to be scared. He doesn’t want to be afraid anymore.

“Three men found me alone last night,” Christoph whispers—if he attempted to speak any louder he knew his voice would crack. He swallows hard, stares straight into Faren’s eyes as he growls, “At the party. They wanted me to… They thought I would be willing to…”

He trails off, rendered speechless by his own horror. Faren looks at him with a frown, his eyes lidded and impatient. He speaks lowly then, saying coldly, “And?”

“And they said it was because word got around that I’m just a cocksucking whore!” Christoph snarls, his rage crashing over him like a wave. Suddenly, he’s no longer afraid. He’s just fucking _angry._ He whips a hand out from his pocket, jabs a finger into Faren’s chest as he continues, saying sharply, “Because of _you!_ I know you’ve been telling people about what happened! Everyone knows, Faren! You couldn’t keep your fucking mouth shut, and now men are coming up to me and expecting me to blow them with no hesitance!”

“But they had reason to,” Faren snaps, grabbing his wrist in a firm hand, grimacing, “I know you’ve blown at least ten men, before you came to me with this fucking problem! So this is on you, for letting it fester! All you had to say was ‘no’!”

“You took advantage of me!” Christoph shouts, yanking his wrist out of his hold, his body shaking now with fury and fear, “And then you passed me around like a fucking toy! Fuck you, you pathetic, disgusting animal! I thought you were a better man! I thought you would care more!”

Faren laughs. He actually laughs, tips his head back, and then meets Christoph’s gaze with a smirk on his face.

“What makes you think I ever cared about you?” he snorts, rolling his eyes. Christoph’s entire body seizes with tension. He really, truly cannot believe what he just heard, and once that disbelief passes, the pure emotion of white-hot wrath overcomes him.

Before Faren could say anything more, Christoph clenches his hand into a fist, cocks back his elbow, throws his torso into the punch when he drives it into Faren’s face. Faren is knocked back into the metal columns of the bleachers, jostling the entire thing and the people sitting atop it. Around them, people watch with varying levels of shock and amusement. Faren ends up on his ass, arm hooked around a metal rung of the bleachers. He cradles his cheek, looks at Christoph with shock. Baring his teeth with malice in his eyes, Christoph lifts a foot and stomps it down onto Faren’s groin.

Faren grunts loudly in pain, rolls down onto his side on the grass, clutching at himself in agony.

“You little bitch!” he snarls, spitting obscenely, looking up at Christoph with his lips in a grimace. Christoph sees only red. He steps over him, looks down at him with uncontrollable hatred on his face, a hatred that had welled up for so long now. Faren looks _fearful_ as Christoph lifts his foot again. He then subsequently curb stomps him with his heel meeting his teeth. Blood spurts out from his nose and mouth. Christoph grabs the back of the bleachers for stability as he lifts his foot again. He manages to smash the heel of his foot into his eye, his temple, his mouth, his throat, drawing out more blood, more screams, more fear, more agony, before arms are suddenly winding around his biceps, yanking him away and off of Faren. Christoph screams at Faren, a wordless shriek that means nothing but fury.

The people around them are shouting, the men grabbing him cursing at him. Christoph is thrown onto the ground, away from Faren. Christoph sees Faren laying there motionlessly. Blood pools around his mouth, seeping into the grass. Christoph doesn’t even care. He hopes he killed him.

He crawls away out from the crowd of people, staggers onto his feet, before he begins to run.

 

At ‘home’, Christoph is quiet and slow as he enters the apartment, opening and closing the broken door behind himself so softly as to avoid being detected. He hears the TV, filling the small apartment with noise. He stands at the front door for a minute, hands by his sides, eyes downcast to the floor. He feels like he’s drowning. He feels like he’s not really standing there, he’s not really seeing his feet, his bloody shoes, his torn pants, the welcome mat underneath him. He feels like he’s drifting away, out of his head. He doesn’t feel rooted. He feels out of his skin. He wants to tear himself apart. He reaches up to clutch fistfuls of his wavy locks, tugs hard, whimpers, before he lowers his hands and paces out into the living room, trembling.

His grandfather glances at him. His grandfather watches him with a stony expression, doesn’t move from his recliner. Christoph is overcome with the desperate need for comfort, for love. He feels like he’s drowning.

“I’m sorry,” Christoph whispers, feels his throat clench. His eyes are burning. He watches his grandfather silently, shaking. His grandfather turns back to the TV. Christoph’s vision swims with tears. He takes in a shuddering breath. He steps closer to him, hands opening, closing, palms slick with anxious sweat. The burning tears cling to his eyelashes. They break free when he blinks tightly, his lips trembling, his eyebrows furrowing and wrinkling his forehead.

“What am I doing wrong?” he asks softly, hoarsely, tears running down his flushed cheeks. He turns his head to hide his face underneath his wild hair when his grandfather looks at him. He swallows hard, lets out a breath before he continues quietly, desperately, “I want someone to guide me. But all you’ve done is blamed me for your misery. You were supposed—M-Mom said, i-in the letter—”

“Whatever your mother said doesn’t mean anything,” his grandfather cuts in, turning off the TV with an agitated click of the remote in his hand, “Do you realize how miserable she was, Christoph? Your father left her, burdened her with a baby she didn’t want to begin with. She tried to be a mother but you took her life away. You were a mistake. I thought you would've known by now. I guess you are just that clueless. Now get out of my sight. I don’t owe you anything.”

Ice grows in Christoph’s veins, spreads to his heart. He stands there silently, speechless. Utterly, completely _hurt._ Pain forms in his chest, swallowing his insides whole like a monster that had been waiting to feed. He can’t breathe. He turns away and walks out of the living room and into his bedroom.

He removes his bloody shoes, and then collapses into his bed. He clutches a pillow in his arms and begins to sob. Tears burn with a vengeance as they drip from his eyes, soaking the pillowcase. His body wracks and shudders with his weeping, his breathless sobs unfiltered and raw, crawling out from his throat as a decade of sorrow and suffering unearths itself to consume him alive. He has no one. He has no friends, no family, no one who cares about him. He wants to fucking die. He wants to disappear forever. He wishes he was never born.

He lays there in agony and in tears, until there are no more to be shed, and every sob has been wrung out of his lungs. He lays there limply, numbly, staring out into the space of his unlit bedroom. He feels nothing. He feels empty.

 

* * *

 

**22; 1988**

 

A man is strumming on a guitar upon the couch, singing [_Listen To The Music_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GVgMzKMgNxw) in decently-sung English. The people standing and sitting around the couch are laughing, dancing, chatting, making the energy of the party become something beyond just an excuse to consume alcohol and narcotics. Something joyous.

Christoph is laying on the ground underneath the coffee table, looking up through the glass to see the cups and bottles of alcohol on its surface, the lines of coke and the broken attempts of rolling joints. He has his arms folded under his head, legs curled up to reduce his size underneath the table, fingers submerged into his sweat-dampened locks. His blue eyes are roaming, blinking slowly, focusing on nothing in particular. The restlessness caused by the blow in his system is distorting, and even now, as he lays here, he wonders why he partook in the consumption when everyone else was. Maybe to feel a sense of fitting in.

Closing his eyes, he hears only the strumming of the guitar, the singing and laughter. His mind drifts to a time eight years ago, when he was more miserable, more lonely, more lost than he is now. Stuck in a boarding school he had spent only six months in due to atrocious behavior—that day when a boy took him from class and showed him the city in a new light. A boy whose name he had never obtained. He pictures the stores they explored. The library. The nearby park. The river they swam through, the creek in the forest they ended up at late at night, swarmed with fireflies. Sitting upon a fallen tree covered in moss, talking about everything and anything, until the boy asked if he had ever been kissed before, what he thought of kissing _a boy._ Sexuality hadn’t been a concern of Christoph’s, so he said it didn’t matter to him. The boy grabbed his hand, kissed him on the cheek, and then his lips. A first kiss shared with a stranger, but also shared with a genuine friend made only in the span of a few hours.

A smile grows across Christoph’s face. With his eyes closed, he wonders where he is now. Is he happy? Christoph hopes he is. If only one of the two of them could have happiness, he genuinely wished that boy had it, because he deserved it. Even years later, he manages to bring a smile to his face.

The song comes to an end, earning the applause of the small crowd the man managed to gather. Christoph opens his eyes, turns his head to peer out past the legs of the coffee table. He pans his gaze across the smiling people, the many girls holding cups, others with cigarettes. Some are unashamedly topless. Christoph meets the gaze of two girls who are watching him.

He wonders where the woman who invited him is. He doesn’t know anyone here, besides her and two others who he knew through his roommate. He doesn’t even really know where _this_ is. He’s just _here._

“Looking a little lonely under there.”

Christoph looks up at her past the cluttered glass panel of the coffee table. It’s one of the girls who had been staring at him. The other stands beside her with crossed arms and a coy smile. He remains laying there, arms folded under his head, saying nothing. She crouches down to peek at him. Her long blonde hair sweeps past her bare shoulders to hang in front of herself. She’s wearing a sunflower-patterned tube top and leather skirt. Her friend is more modestly dressed.

“What’s your name, honey?” she asks, watching him with searching eyes and a soft smile on her glossy lips. Christoph looks at her with an easily placed mask, untrusting. His smile is long gone.

“Schneider,” he says lowly. The corners of her eyes crinkle when her smile grows.

“You want to hang out with us?” she asks, noticeably unwilling to offer her name in return. Christoph has learned that being alone is the safest route. He’s only come to attend this party because it was either this, or sitting at home doing nothing after work, like usual.

“Why would you want my company?” he asks, arching a brow, “There are many other people more exciting than myself. I am just laying under a coffee table.”

“See, that’s what makes you interesting,” she remarks, gesturing with a manicured finger and a tilt of her head, “You are laying down and enjoying the moment. I feel like what you have to say would be more interesting than anybody else.”

“I’m afraid not,” he muses, sweeps his gaze along her crouching body before meeting her gaze again, “There is nothing interesting about me.”

“I disagree,” she remarks, glances up towards her friend who has been smiling during this exchange as well—they’re both obviously high. Christoph doesn’t mind this abrupt conversation, but he’s also feeling wary.

“Come out and join us on the patio,” she says, glancing down at him again, reaching up to sweep her locks behind an ear, “It’s beautiful outside tonight.”

The man on the guitar begins to play another song. Everyone starts to holler and cheer. The noise has begun to irritate Christoph, so escaping seems much more appealing than just laying here. These two women seem kind. He nods. They grin. They turn away and begin to walk towards the double glass-paneled door which leads out to the spacious patio. Christoph stares at their long legs as they depart, finding it an interesting view from this perspective. He then slides out from underneath the coffee table, climbing up onto his feet unsteadily. He’s still a little off-center from the drugs.

Past sweat-dampened bangs, he sees the two girls stepping out onto the patio, talking with each other and smiling. The other girl with the short bob and modest clothing looks back at him with a grin and lidded eyes. Beckoning. Christoph is unsure what their intentions are, but he’s always been foolishly gullible. He makes his way to the patio, tripping over furniture twice.

At the doors, he rests against the doorframe, peers out to see them leaning over the banister of the patio, elbows placed upon it with smiles on their faces, faces made pretty with an overabundance of makeup. The girl with the tube top looks back at him and grins slyly, tilts her head in a coaxing gesture. He warily walks out into the cool night air, unsteady on his feet.

“Already indulged a bit in the coke, I see,” she muses, watching as he leans heavily into the banister.

“I’m not accustomed to it,” he murmurs, sweeping his lopsided hair out of his face, “I don’t often do drugs.”

“More of a beverage guy?” she muses, turns to face him, propping her elbows back against the banister. The short-haired girl watches him past her friend’s shoulder, smiling still. Christoph feels a little uneasy. He nods.

“Well, here,” she says, grabbing a red cup from the surface of the banister to hold it out to him, giving him a kind smile, “Bottoms up.”

Christoph stares at it, debating whether or not he should avoid consuming anything else that may inhibit him. She waits, watching him with unmoving eyes and a sweet smile, head tilted. Christoph lets out a breath. Well, now he has _someone_ to get drunk with, so why not?

He nods, reaches out to take it from her.

“What is it?”

“Vodka and Sprite,” she answers, watching him with lidded eyes. Christoph likes vodka mixtures. He brings it to his lips. Peering past the cup as he takes a drink, he notices the two girls are watching him closely, the one with the bob grinning broadly. Christoph shakes his head, grimacing.

“That tastes weird,” he murmurs, sticking out his tongue. The girls laugh.

“It’s flavored vodka, too,” the long-haired one muses, sweeping her locks behind her back, “You’re probably used to unflavored.”

Seems believable. Christoph shrugs. Takes another drink, grimaces again. His new-found friend reaches out to take it from him, snickering.

“Don’t drink too much. We don’t want you passing out and missing all the fun.”

Christoph nods. He already feels it hitting him. He blinks slowly, then turns to look up at the moon and stars. It’s a crescent tonight. He gazes at it, finding it a lovely sight. _Wherever_ they are, _whoever_ lives here, they have a nice view of the sky from this patio.

“So, Schneider, how old are you?”

Panning his gaze over, he trains it on the girl and blinks slowly.

“Twenty-two,” he slurs. She nods, smiling. The girl with the short hair reaches out to take his hand, clutching at two of his big fingers.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asks boldly, arching a brow with a smirk on her face. He furrows his brow.

“No,” he mutters, a little more defensively. He doesn’t care about dating. She seems pleased by his answer.

“Did you come with anyone tonight?” the long-haired one asks, taking a step closer to him, leaning against the banister with one manicured hand raising to run down over his arm. Christoph blinks heavily, eyes wide. Why is everything suddenly spinning? Jesus, the vodka mixed with the cocaine might’ve been a bad idea. He wobbles on his feet a bit, clutches at the banister with a white-knuckled grasp.

“Uh,” he slurs, “No, but—but I was invited, by a girl. I dunno where she is.”

“Are you okay? Do you need to go sit down?” she asks, brow furrowing with concern. Christoph nods silently. He’s about to collapse. The long-haired one glances towards her friend, nods, and then they’re both grabbing onto one of his arms to begin leading him back into the living room. People notice, stare, ask if he’s okay. The girls just dismiss it, saying he’s had too much, earning knowing grins from the other party inhabitants. Christoph’s focus is fading. He barely registers anything. Somehow, he manages to walk with the two girls, and only as they’re beginning to ascend the staircase does he realize they’re taking him upstairs. He supposes the three couches downstairs were occupied. His head begins to loll. He groans. The two girls are silent as they lead him into one of the bedrooms.

“Okay, right here, Schneider. Just relax,” one of them whispers into his ear, and he can’t really distinguish who that was. Then suddenly he’s collapsing onto a cloud. A comfy, plush cloud. Or rather, a bed, a bed he doesn’t sleep in. He groans, lifts a hand that feels like a thousand pounds. Rubs it over his slackened face, lets it fall against the comfortable blankets again. He feels like he’s going to pass out, but that state of unconsciousness doesn’t come. He just rolls his eyes, looks up at the ceiling, utterly disoriented and inebriated. This is awful. He has no control over himself, over his body.

“Stay still, Schneider. Don’t worry,” a softer voice purrs, “We’re going to take care of you. We saw how lonely you were. We figured we could make the night better for you. Do you want to have fun with us?”

Christoph weakly props up on an elbow, with immense difficulty. He blinks slowly, waits for his vision to stop spinning before he makes out the shapes and appearances of the two girls. They’re kneeling on the bed, surrounding him, smiles on their pretty faces. He licks his lips, nods. Fun sounds much better than whatever is happening right now. He flops back into the pillows, rolls his eyes shut.

Distantly, he feels something pulling at his jeans. He’s too weak to look right now. He just lays there, motionless, breathing slowly, eyes hooded and rolling with his intense disorientation. Then he feels hands on his sides, brushing across his pale skin, drawing up the olive pullover he is wearing, exposing his stomach and his heaving chest. The cool air on his sweaty skin feels amazing. The hands that sweep over his belly and prominent ribcage feel uncomfortable. Pinpricks in his skin. He grimaces.

Another pair of hands are working down his jeans, throwing them onto the floor along with his boots.

“You have a lovely body,” one of them murmurs. Fingers drift around his nipples, trace the bones of his ribcage. Christoph groans with misery, swallows thickly, rolls his head to the side, hands clenching into fists. A hand curling around his dick through his briefs and squeezing has him weakly lifting his head. The long-haired woman is bent over him, looking up at him past her bangs with a smile on her face. She’s groping him. The other one with the bob is touching his chest. They’re both shirtless now.

“Wait,” Christoph slurs with widened eyes, abruptly realizing where this is going. Dread swells in his gut like a rock. He doesn’t want to be this inebriated during this. He wants to be sober. He swallows thickly, tries to clear his rapid thoughts to piece together one coherent protest.

“Not yet,” he says thickly, and then drops his head back against the pillows, unable to hold it up any longer. One of the girls giggle.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, “We don’t have to wait.”

Christoph _wants_ to wait, though. He didn’t even realize that this is what they wanted to do. He wants to let this high pass, so he has more control of his body. He doesn’t want to just lay here, helpless and paralyzed. If they wanted to fuck, he would be more willing if he could actually contribute to it. But he can barely move at all. He can’t see that well, and his tongue feels like lead, his mouth dry and numb. He can’t think straight.

The girls don’t listen to him. He furrows his brow, frustrated that they’re not understanding him. The hand groping at his dick withdraws, a momentary relief, before he feels her curl her fingers into the waistband of his briefs. Meanwhile, the other woman is pulling his long-sleeved shirt up over his head, despite his slurred protests. She tosses it aside, leaves him naked with his long curls a wild mess. He looks up at her with an agape mouth, lidded eyes, and red cheeks. His briefs are drawn down and off his legs.

“You are so cute,” the short-haired girl gushes, grinning down at him. Heat rises into his face. He presses his lips together, frowns. She leans in, head angling, and kisses him. Christoph grunts, recoils back into the bed with discomfort. His lips are stuff and in a firm line as she begins mashing her mouth against his. He attempts to turn his head out of it, her lips sliding against his cheek. She grabs his face, turns his head back to face her. He’s too weak to fight it. He looks up at her weakly, silently pleading with submissiveness in his blue eyes. She smiles down at him, eyes lidded, and angles her head to kiss him again.

Christoph decides going along with it will make it end sooner. She’ll be satisfied, and then leave him alone. He begins to kiss her back with sloppy, drunken mashes of his lips. She hums against his mouth. Her tongue sweeps into his lips, tastes his teeth, his saliva. He grunts. Christoph wiggles underneath them, lifting his hands to press them to her biceps, squeezing her there hard enough his thumbs dig into her flesh. He’s too afraid of hurting her to push her away. He doesn’t want to hurt her. He doesn’t want to create problems. He just wants this to stop.

Then suddenly, a startling sensation blooms in his lower half—a wet, warm heat envelops his soft cock. He jerks back into the bed, breaking the unpleasant kiss. He turns his head away, looks down with wide eyes to see the long-haired girl with his dick in her mouth. Her blonde locks fall to curtain her face, resting across his thighs. He groans, tips his head back into the bed. Despite his discomfort, that feels amazing. Somehow, the state he’s in amplifies the pleasure. Every nerve-ending is unbearably sensitive, overwhelmingly so. His legs begin to fidget, his hands pulling up fistfuls of the covers. He groans, twisting his head to the side and into the pillows. The girl who kissed him laughs.

“Please,” Christoph slurs, groans, twists his hips—her hands immediately flatten across them, shoves them back down into the bed.

“Aw, he’s begging,” the short-haired one coos, reaching out to stroke a hand over his heaving chest, “I think he likes it.”

“No,” he whimpers, grimacing.

The minutes seem like seconds. The way she sucks him off is a drowning ocean of sensation, wave after wave crashing against him and submerging him. The high leaves him wired and responsive, loud and fidgety. He attempts twice more to move away, but somehow, he has no strength. The blonde easily keeps him pinned. She obviously wants to do this to him, and she won’t stop until she’s pleased. Maybe if she got him off, she would stop? Christoph doesn’t even know if he could have an orgasm right now. He’s in a world of confusion and distortion. He can’t piece together a single thought, can’t vocalize how much he doesn’t want this. Everything is too much, too overwhelming.

Somehow, he ends up erect. The girls continue touching him, covering his shaking body in wandering hands, groping at his thighs, squeezing his chest, kissing at his skin spotted with birth marks. They try kissing his mouth many times, but he is too far out of it to respond, too agonized. He feels like he’s far from rooted to this bed, like he’s going to crawl out of his skin and become something more. He hates this. He’s suffering. The sensation of her touching his erection is amplified tenfold. The pleasure makes him moan, but he doesn’t want it.

He can only watch with a grimace and narrowed eyes as she moves up onto him, crawling over him with her long locks hanging down towards him. Her face is flushed, lips in a pleased smile. Her eyes gaze down upon him with domination, with satisfaction. He feels betrayed. She reaches out to run two fingers down over his thin lips, his bottom lip dragging down along with the stroke. He lets out a weak noise of protest.

“Ever fucked a girl?” she whispers, a teasing question. He looks up at her, wide-eyed. He opens his mouth, attempts to find his voice. It doesn’t come. He lets out a deep, wheezing exhale. He hasn’t fucked anyone, much less a girl. He hasn’t done this before. He wants to cry, he wants to get up and leave the room, he wants to disappear. He doesn’t want this, he wants his first time to be with someone who deserves this vulnerability of his. He doesn’t want anyone to peel him apart like this, to see the ugliest part of him. He wants someone who he can trust. He doesn’t want this.

A hand grasping his wrist is barely registered, until his hand is being raised and smothered into one of her breasts. She squeezes her fingers around his, forces him to grope her breast with a pleased look on her face. He recoils, frowning deeply with a knit brow. He feels nauseous.

His vision is swimming too much to see her clearly. He can’t distinguish what’s happening, until a slick, tight heat is sliding down over his length—much like the texture and warmth of a mouth, but not quite the same. His entire body winds up with tension. He stare wide-eyed up at her, motionless and stone-faced. She watches him closely, long, blonde locks framing her face, hangs down towards him. The girl beside him continues stroking at his shaking body with wandering hands.

“He’s so perfect. I’ll get off soon so you get a turn,” he hears the blonde breathe, piercing eyes flicking over to meet her friend’s. Christoph stares at nothing, begins to focus on the static in his head, lets the humming of his drugged mind overtake everything that’s happening. She begins to ride him. Unfortunately, he’s still hard. The blood is drained from his face, his heart pounding, his chest heaving, hands locked in a vice by his sides, his eyes trained distantly on the ceiling past her shoulder. He wants to disappear.

For what seems like an eternity, this goes on. Christoph remains silent and tense, jaw clenched and knuckles screaming from the pain of clutching the blankets so hard. He hears screaming and laughing outside, beyond the closed door of the bedroom.

“You’re being awfully quiet,” the short-haired girl behind him says with a pout in her voice, “Aren’t you having fun? Isn’t this what you want? Why won’t you say anything?”

“He’s just shy,” the blonde says breathlessly, with a grin, still moving on top of him. She does something to him that makes him twitch, his brow furrowing deeply and mouth falling open. Staring up at the ceiling, he isn’t sure what she did, but he doesn’t want to know. He hates the weak noise that is wrung out his throat. His heart is pounding away, he can feel it. He’s burning up. His body is on fire. He can’t handle it. He hates this, he hates this. A breathless laugh, and a lowly spoken voice that has his skin crawling.

“See, look. Now he’s responding.”

 

* * *

 

**25; 1991**

 

The gun is a solid weight in his hands. His fingers wrapped around the grip is an unusually comforting sight. He sits at the windowsill of the tiny apartment he shares with his roommate and his roommate’s girlfriend. Hunched over, confining himself and making himself feel hidden from the world. Submerged in the darkness, the only light emitting from the moon. He sees people walking outside, when they should not be. There is a curfew in these parts, at this time of night.

He watches them, like they were insects, and he their God. He wonders briefly how strange it is, that they’re unaware they’re being watched by a man about to kill himself. What would they say, what would they do, if they knew? Was he ever watched in similar fashion? How many paths of fate has he missed, due to being closed off from the world all this time? Are there any people he could’ve met, people that could’ve changed his life drastically, for better or for worse, but he walked right past them?

These philosophical thoughts always plague him when he’s deep in the pit of depression. His hands are shaking. He glances towards the front door of the apartment, peeks down the hallway to see his roommates’ door closed.

He clicks open the chamber of the revolver he bought off some guy for a laughably low price. There’s one bullet. He snaps the chamber shut, spins it. His friends have played Russian Roulette before, pressured him into it when he was sixteen, but he refused and had been labeled a pussy. Their sick game of Five Finger Fillet had been retaliation for his cowardice. The scar is faded against the pale skin of his finger, but it never really went away, nor did the memory that had been scarring in itself.

He spins the chamber again. Stares out towards the street again. The people are gone.

Eyes becoming distant, Christoph suddenly withdraws into the memory of the photobook. The picture of his mother, laying sprawled out across the bed of her youth, hair wild and face bearing a beaming grin. Then the image of her collapsed on the kitchen floor, laying sprawled out in a pool of her blood, face vacant, hair matted to her neck and jaw. Eyes seeing nothing but nothingness.

Raising the hand wielding the gun, he presses the muzzle under his chin, angled upwards. He squeezes the trigger firmly, with no hesitation. It clicks in the emptiness of the room, signaling there is no bullet to fire. His heart is pounding, adrenaline shot through his veins. Sweat brews on his forehead, under his burst of curls. It takes him a moment to realize nothing has happened. He’s still here.

Well, he supposes that’s that. He sets the gun down, stares at it for five minutes, thinking of his mother. Then he rises, leaves the room, turning his back to the failed attempt of changing his fate. He needs to get some sleep. He has work in the morning.

 

* * *

 

**27; 1993**

 

“This isn’t the kind of organization you want to be in, Christoph. It’ll fuck you up. You don’t need to do this, trust me. You could do better things, kid.”

“I want to. I need to. Give me a chance.”

“There is no turning back.”

“I don’t want to turn back. I want to be your soldier, Tägtgren. I want to be useful to you, to the family.”

“If you say so. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’ll talk to Heitmann. He’ll place you in a six-man group. Probably with Zoran.”

“Thank you. I will not let you down. I will be your best man. I promise you that.”

 

* * *

 

**28; 1994**

 

The spray of blood across the rich wood of the desk is a gruesome reminder. Christoph ignores the reminder, buries it deep under the rage currently engulfing him. He tightens his grip on the fistful of hair, slams the man’s face into the desk again with a strained grunt and a baring of clenched teeth. Adrenaline courses through his veins, has his heart pumping.

“Please!” the man screams, spitting up blood that falls in globs against the desk, “I’ll get the fucking money! I promise!”

“You’ve had your chances,” Christoph snarls, leaning in close to him with wide, wild eyes, “Zoran has only so much patience. You _owe him_.”

“I know, I—!” the man yells, but Christoph has heard enough. He isn’t here to discuss it. He violently smashes his face into the desk, but his aim was a little off—he slams him down into the pencil holder, and in result, he gets stabbed in the forehead and eye. The man starts bucking and screaming like an animal, kicking back the wheeled chair, knocking over the trashcan, flailing wildly underneath Christoph. Christoph lets him go, disgusted. The wounded man collapses, weeps and screams like a fucking child. Christoph reaches out, the fuel of anger and determination encouraging him to rip the heavy computer monitor off the desk to raise it above his head, poised above the man who looks up at him with one wide eye.

“Wait!” he screams, holds out a hand. Christoph doesn’t care. He’s here to teach him a fucking lesson. He thrusts it down into his chest with a shattering of glass and a yell of agony from the low-life gangster. The monitor rolls off of him, crashes against the desk in a great big deal of noise. The man at his feet suddenly goes limp. Panting, Christoph stands over him, covered in blood, gazing down upon him with a deep grimace and narrowed eyes.

He must have passed out from the trauma to his face, the shock. Whatever. He did what he had to do. He steps over him, rips open the drawers to the desk, searches through them, produces nothing. Then he takes a step back, crouches down to begin rifling through his pockets, checking the waistband of his khaki pants. He finds an envelope full of money. He flips through it with a neutral face. This should be decent compensation for now.

He rises, tucks it into the inner pocket of his suit coat. Then he turns to leave.

 

A week later, he and one of five men he works with are assigned an assassination job—they must seek out a captain of an opposing family who betrayed Zoran. He robbed his dealers by gunpoint for their drug money. That doesn’t get swept under the rug to Zoran. It results in death, whether it creates tension among the families or not. Christoph seems to excel in locating and tracking the men they are ordered to kill, usually through forceful means of obtaining information from lackeys and coworkers. Considering how sloppy and careless these gangsters typically are, Christoph finds him spending the evening at a restaurant with his trophy wife.

They wait outside by his car, under the darkness of the night. Christoph is loading his Beretta, snapping the slide back and cocking the gun. He watches the double doors of the restaurant closely, unwaveringly. His partner smokes silently beside him, stares at him. Christoph can feel it.

“Spit it out,” he demands, flatly.

“You’ve never killed before, have you?” his partner asks smoothly, earning a glance from hardened blue eyes. Christoph furrows his brow. The other man speaks again, lowly.

“I know the look. You haven’t. You’ve only been with us for six months. Zoran had been easy on you. He always liked the pretty boys.”

Christoph is silent. He’s not wrong, but he won’t confirm his accusations. Christoph is indifferent. He will do what has to be done. The other man continues, plucking his cigarette from his lips to release the smoke in a stream as he says, “This will be the time. Are you ready?”

The night is unusually quiet. It becomes apparent during this moment. There are no cars, no people talking or walking by, no sirens, no animals creating sounds. Utter silence, stillness. Emptiness.

“I am meant to be here,” Christoph says lowly, sliding his gun back into his underarm holster with a stony expression on his young face, “I have nowhere else to be, nothing else to do, nothing else to become. I’m prepared for my future.”

He isn’t hiding under his hair anymore. He isn’t hesitating through fear anymore, he won’t let it consume him. He isn’t going to let anything or anyone change his mind again. He will dictate his own life from this point on. No one will ever have control over him, ever again. He will never be the vulnerable man he once was. He won’t.

A sly smile curls at the lips of his partner, masked morbidly in the darkness under the shade of a lamppost.

“Well, aren’t you a grim motherfucker?”

 

* * *

 

**28; 1994**

 

Blood is in the crevices of his teeth, seeping into his mouth, strong and bitter on his tongue. It sprays across the floor, gritty and crimson, when he spits it out. He can’t see. There is blood in his eyes—his eyebrows are split from the beating he received. His face is swelling. His jaw aches, pulsates with pain.

“Maybe next time, you’ll reconsider before killing one of our own,” a deep, growling voice snarls at him. Christoph has his hands in fists, restrained to the armrests of a chair by duct tape. His feet are bound together. A prong collar is wound around his throat, the stainless steel metal digging into his skin painfully.

“Say something, you fucking bastard!” the voice bellows. Christoph tries to blink away the blood. He bares his teeth, says nothing, just displays his refusal. In return, a knife is pressed to his arm, above his wrist. It digs in, breaks skin, sinks into flesh. Christoph clenches his jaw, takes in a breath through his nose. He’s not afraid. The pain is only momentary.

The knife is dragged upwards. Deeper and deeper it travels, further and further it goes, slicing into his skin for a lengthy three inches, up to his mid-forearm. Christoph bares his teeth, grunts in pain. It is only momentary. The sharp, biting pain of the knife is gone, replaced only by the stinging of the residual cut. Blood begins to curl around the width of his arm, drips off the armrest of the chair.

“You’re a fucking tough guy, aren’t you? Well, I know what will make you squeal, you whore,” the voice mocks. Christoph pants heavily, hands clenching into fists. He hates that fucking word. He hates it.

“You’re helpless, no matter how powerful you may think you are,” he seethes from between bloody teeth, “Do whatever you want to me, but know if you kill me, Zoran will be the least of your problems. Tägtgren will get involved. And you don’t want that. If you want to keep your little deals going. If you want to live with peace of mind. If you want to live without fear, fear that will follow you every day, every _waking moment_.”

“You’re right,” the man says sharply, and then violently grabs Christoph’s hand, presses the pointed tip of the knife to the underside of his index’s fingernail. Christoph’s blood runs ice cold. Sweat bursts out from his skin. Twisting his wrist away, he clenches his hand into a fist, but his torturer has no patience for that. He slams the handle of the knife against the back of his hand, and _that_ fucking hurts. Christoph growls through grit teeth. His hand is weak, numb, as the other man unfolds it again, grasps it so hard it’s painful. The knife reclaims its place at his fingernail. Panting, the voice speaks again, a snarl.

“I won’t kill you. You’re Tägtgren’s favorite dog. But I can make you howl. Scream all you want, you little bitch, because no one will hear you. No one will come for you.”

 

* * *

 

**35; 2001**

 

He can see her. She stands there, in the kitchen, watching him. Christoph just wants to make her happy. He wants to make her smile. He kneels before her, collapses forward onto his hands, weeps onto her feet, clings to her legs like he did twenty-nine years ago. He looks up at her, begging her to forgive him. She watches him, but there is no gaze in her eyes. She stares down at him, but her eyes are lifeless. Her hair shrouds her face, begins to melt away from the dark chestnut into dripping crimson. Her hair cascades down her body, runs across the folds of her clothing, drips from her fingertips, her eyelashes, builds at her feet, builds around Christoph, until his hands are submerged, his tears lost in the pool of her blood.

“Don’t even try,” she says, voice warbled like she spoke through water, “You did your best, but it means nothing.”

Christoph feels that weight of being crushed, even in his dream. A feeling of dread and longing, heartache and hatred for himself. He curls around her legs on his side, clings to her like a weeping child. The crimson liquid swallows him whole. It seeps into his eyes, pools in his ears, floods his mouth. He hears her softly spoken, “That’s sweet, honey.”

 

When he opens his eyes, he stares at the ceiling with distress and fear crawling through his skin like insects. That feeling of vile sadness weighs down on his heart. His chest physically hurts. He sucks in a breath, lifts his shaky hands to run them down over his face. He thought he had left the nightmares of her behind, years ago. He hates how of all the things he retained as a child, it was that memory, most prominent of all.

He realizes he’s breathing rapidly, shakily, without rhythm. Cold sweat is brewing on his skin. He lurches up into a seated position, the sheets falling to bunch at his hips, exposing his naked torso. His heart is pounding. He wraps his muscular arms around himself, grips his biceps in his hands. He leans forward to press his forehead to his raised knees. He tries to calm his ragged, unsteady breathing. A choked feeling closes around his throat. He bares his teeth, represses the feeling. He stopped crying over nightmares decades ago. He won’t let it happen again.

It felt like _hours,_ but eventually, he calms his breathing. He stops shaking uncontrollably. That crushing feeling bearing down on his chest alleviates. His skin is still crawling, feeling foreign on his body, but it’s not unbearable. He lowers his arms from around himself, drapes them limply against the bed. He looks to his left.

Till lays on his front, arms wound around the pillows, face turned towards Christoph, his black hair limp and laying messily around his face. The sight has a weak, trembling smile growing on Christoph’s face. Till’s full lips are lax, fallen open with his snores. His eyes are roaming under closed eyelids. He’s developing stubble, joining the spot of facial hair under his bottom lip. He’s so handsome. He’s so cute, like this. So human. So vulnerable.

With a heavy blue eye, Christoph traces every scar, every mark that decorates his broad back, admires the tan skin that is exposed to his gaze—the sheets cover the rest. Christoph’s chest feels tight again, his heart constricting. An incredible longing chokes him. Not exactly heartache, but a feeling similar. Happy despondency caused by comparison of how his life once was. He takes in a shuddering breath. Gazing at Till’s sleeping face, Christoph is overcome with a bittersweet thankfulness. His eyes burn.

He needs him. He loves him, truly.

Reaching out slowly, reluctantly, Christoph strokes his index and middle fingertips along a crescent shaped scar against Till’s shoulder blade. His skin is hot.

Immediately, Till’s eyes snap open, train up on him. He lifts his head, raises onto an elbow with a disgruntled expression appearing on his rugged face. He blinks heavily, turns to look at the alarm clock on the side table. Christoph sucks in a breath, withdraws his hand.

Somehow, for some reason, Christoph was convinced Till wouldn’t wake up. That they would forever be in that moment, when Christoph was with him, but he was alone. When Till was at peace, asleep and away from the world, away from Christoph. Unsuspecting, oblivious to Christoph’s conflicted sorrow, his woeful gratitude.

No _—No,_ he doesn’t think of Christoph as a burden. He doesn’t. He doesn’t. Christoph shakes his head, sharply. It’s hard stripping away the ingrained feeling that this is all false, that Till is merely tolerating him. Till looks at him, rubs at his tired face with a broad hand before dropping it onto the bed. His voice is thick with sleep when he speaks.

“What are you doing up so early, love?”

Christoph stares at him blankly, hands limp by his sides again. He doesn’t know what to say. What can he say? He can’t be silent, though. He can’t be afraid. He has to say something. He opens his mouth, hesitates. Till watches him patiently, eyes gentle, understanding. He moves to sit up, the bed creaking. Christoph speaks softly, looks down.

“I had a panic attack. I need you. I’m sorry. I’m a weak man. I always have been.”

A moment of silence passes. Till is absorbing this information, debating what to say, what to do. Christoph knows he calculates everything.

“Come here,” Till murmurs, reaching for him. Christoph hates himself so much. He hates being weak, he hates relying on Till. A deep furrow wrinkles his forehead as he slides closer to Till across the bed, sinks into his arms. Till wraps him in his embrace, pulls him closer. Christoph ends up draped across him when Till lays back against the pillows. Their naked legs tangle. Christoph’s hands sluggishly slide up to stroke over Till’s broad sides, across bare skin.

“You are not a weak man,” Till says lowly, his calloused hands stroking over Christoph’s back, over pale skin and scars and birth marks. Christoph clings to him, desperate for comfort, for love. Till kisses him on the temple, noses at his short mohawk, squeezes his arms around him. Christoph begins to tremble.

It feels like everything is closing up. Things have been getting better ever since he found Till, since he found Paul, but sometimes he can’t help but _remember,_ can’t help but _feel._ Can’t help but _remember_ how it _would feel_ , being denied such a thing, over and over again. This is one of those times he remembers. His vision blurs and his throat is tightening again.

“You don’t have to be sorry, _ever_ ,” Till growls, holding him so tightly Christoph cannot move if he cared to try. Christoph is tense, scared. He clenches his jaw, swallows hard. He won’t shed tears again. He won’t, he won’t, he won’t, he won’t, he won’t, he won’t—

“I love you,” Christoph whispers hoarsely, hoping to get it out before he breaks down. Till squeezes his smaller body, kisses him firmly on the cheek, the temple. Christoph takes in shuddering breaths, tries to fight the tears that are simmering in his eyes, balancing on the precipice of his eyelashes. Fucking hell. He’s so weak. The tears drip down to run across his cheeks. He wants to be better than this.

“I love you, too, Christoph,” Till murmurs, stroking a hand over his back as he pulls back to look at him. Christoph turns his head away, lips pressed tightly together, jaw tensing. A big hand gently cups his cheek, turns his head for him to face him again. Christoph doesn’t meet his eyes. He looks down at his neck, far too cowardly to meet his gaze. The tears are wet on his face, warm and unwanted. He wants to disappear—he hates it when Till witnesses his weakness. He hates it when he rips his own heart out and shows it to Till. To anybody.

Till stops looking at him. He leans in, head angled, to kiss him softly. Christoph digs his nails into Till’s sides, holds him tightly as he kisses him back with shaky purses of his lips. Their mouths overlap together, a tender sharing of their lips that makes the pressure in Christoph’s chest lighten. He relaxes atop him. Tension melts away. His throat unclenches. He can breathe again. He kisses Till passionately, ravenously, desperate to pour his feelings of love into it. His thankfulness. He clutches at him, brow furrowed, eyes clenched shut, eyelashes wet with tears, his thin lips firm and emotional against Till’s, affectionate.

When they separate, Christoph is panting for air, his cheeks damp but drying, his eyes red but no longer watering. He looks at Till, no longer afraid. He searches in his concerned, beautiful green eyes and brings his hand up to touch at his stubbled, scarred face. He clears his throat, speaks quietly, thickly, his remaining blue eye trained intently on Till’s.

“I need to talk to you, Till. I need to tell you something very important.”

**Author's Note:**

> babypaulchen.tumblr.com
> 
> Here's an amazing [series of moodboards](https://wiener-blut.tumblr.com/post/167943936351/rammstein-ich-will-7-deadly-sins-moodboards) that the lovely Lily made, for this AU!! Thank you ♡
> 
>  
> 
> [Ich Will AU timeline](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/13Id4L3EsDsvuEP9h6Gmv61c-rCrFGsuWhleimteGRsk/edit?usp=sharing)


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